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pininghermit · 5 months ago

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Wifed up on a tuesday

Request: If you are still doing the tropevenia event, can you please write a fic with secret marriage prompt for Adrian Tepes x female reader. ( =＾ω＾)

AN: get this dhampir a wife! Such a fun request

Genre: fluff + Secret Marriage

Pairing(s): Alucard x Wife Reader

Summary: "No one hurts my wife," he said, his voice steady and cold, without sparing a glance back.

"You have a wife?!" Sypha screamed, her voice echoing off the walls as Trevor stared blankly into the void, looking more lost than usual.

You winced at the shriek, gently setting her cup of coffee in front of her. "Nice to meet you," you offered with an awkward smile, unsure if she even heard you through her shock.

Next to you, Adrian cleared his throat, his golden eyes flickering away as a faint blush crept up his pale cheeks. "We have been betrothed for twenty years," he said evenly, though his voice wavered slightly. "It was... a matter of time."

That, of course, did not make things better.

Before you could fully process what happened next, a heavy pile of books toppled onto you, and the sharp sting of a whip lashed across your back.

"Not a curse then," Trevor murmured, standing over you with an expression that teetered between relief and annoyance. From the corner of your eye, you caught Adrian gawking, his face frozen in disbelief.

A bubbling shame welled up in your chest, hot and suffocating. You pushed yourself to your feet, glaring at Trevor. "Indeed, quite human," you snarled, and without hesitation, you swung your fist, landing a solid punch to the oaf’s jaw.

"I am human," you continued, your voice sharp with fury. "At least in part. Adrian and I were betrothed by our parents. And we are now wed."

You could see the dread settling on Sypha's face, her expression torn between shock and dawning understanding. Then you turned your blazing eyes back to Trevor. "You're not welcome in my home. Sleep in the barn tonight."

Adrian's friend or not, no one struck you and got away with it. And if they dared, you made damn sure they understood the cost of their actions.

The silence that followed was tense, broken only by the sound of Trevor groaning from where he had staggered back.

Snapping out of his stupor, Adrian ignored Trevor completely and rushed to your side. His golden eyes scanned you, his hands hovering just shy of your back, as though afraid to touch and cause more harm. "Are you hurt, my love?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with worry.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, Adrian’s power rippled through the room like a sudden gust of wind. With a sharp crack, a mighty blast of air sent Trevor flying backward, slamming the doors shut with an echoing thud.

"No one hurts my wife," he said, his voice steady and cold, without sparing a glance back. The message was loud and clear to Sypha, who stood frozen, staring at her husband lying in the rubble outside. "And anyone who wishes her harm shall bear my wrath."

In the quiet stillness of your room, Adrian carefully peels the fabric of your dress away from your back, his movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid to hurt you further. His golden eyes scan your unmarred skin, but the frown on his face only deepens.

"I should have stopped him," he mutters, his voice low and filled with guilt. "I was too late... I'm sorry. I just... I didn’t expect it." He rambles, his words tangling together in frustration as his gaze flickers between your back and his own trembling hands.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice achingly quiet, like the faintest whisper of wind.

He had failed again. To protect you. To care for you. Gods, he was lacking, and now he had allowed a Belmont, his own friend, to harm you.

His father, who burned the world for his mother, would never have allowed such a thing. Dracula had been many things, but in love, he was absolute. But Adrian knows he will never be his father, in both good and bad.

He will never be the husband you deserve.

But he is in love. Unforgiving love that clutches at his heart, that reminds him with every breath of all the ways he falls short.

His expression crumples, like paper crushed in a fist. Adrian, for all his power, for all his strength, is so terribly fragile when it comes to you.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassured him, turning to face him fully. Your hands rose to cup his face, tilting it gently so his eyes met yours. “You know it can’t hurt me. Trevor didn’t strike to harm, only to dislodge potential glamor.”

You could see the mild complaint brewing on his lips. Adrian worried too much. Fretting, after all, was his favorite pastime. His brow furrowed deeply, no doubt already replaying every moment in his mind and finding a thousand ways to blame himself.

“You did nothing wrong,” you said firmly, your thumbs stroking the sharp planes of his cheeks. “You did the right thing. Tomorrow morning, your friend will apologize, and we will forgive him because he is your friend. And then, you will no longer hold this against him.”

Adrian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a stern look.

“Nope. Listen to me. Wife is right.”

His lips quirked upward, despite himself, and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. His hands moved to rest on yours, cradling them against his face like a lifeline.

“You’re always right,” he murmured softly, leaning into your touch.

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, smiling at him.

Adrian laughed, low and quiet, before pressing a kiss to your palm. “Never,” he promised.

Somehow, Adrian had found a wife. In the bleakest of times, when the world had turned its back on him, you had come to him. And now, you were here, standing in his castle, a presence that soothed even his most troubled thoughts.

When the next morning came, you were greeted by an unexpected sight.

A sizable tuft of brown hair lay at your feet, carefully placed by Sypha, who stood before you with her hands clasped. Outside, just beyond the castle doors, her husband knelt silently, his head bowed low in shame.

The tuft of hair. A Belmont tradition of repentance. An act of humiliation and an offering of guilt.

An act you had no use for.

Still, it would be of little use to ignore it.

"My husband is a dog," Sypha said with a weary sigh, though her tone softened with affection. "He lashes out carelessly. Please, forgive him." She bowed low, an act that clearly caused Adrian discomfort. His eyes flickered with unease as he watched his friends, who seemed more like chastised children than the bold warriors they usually were.

Gently stopping Sypha mid-bow, you reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. "There’s no need for apologies," you said, your voice calm but light with humor. Sparing the kneeling Belmont a glance, you gestured toward the tuft of hair at your feet. "Though I reckon this," you said, pointing to it with a raised brow, "shall make for a very interesting wedding present."

Sypha’s head snapped up, her lips parting in surprise before a laugh bubbled out of her. The tension in her shoulders eased, the corners of her mouth lifting into a grin.

With that simple jest, the air shifted, the weight of guilt and harshness lifting from the room. Grudges were set aside, and forgiveness settled in their place like the morning sun breaking through heavy clouds.

"Bring your dog in for breakfast," you said, your grin widening as you met Sypha’s eyes. "Adrian’s the one cooking today."

The smile she returned was bright, her laughter lightening the room even more. "I’ll hold you to that," she said with a chuckle, turning toward the door to retrieve her sheepish husband.

Behind you, Adrian stepped closer, his expression softening as he gazed at you. "You handled that well," he murmured, his voice laced with quiet admiration.

You turned to him with a playful smile, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "It’s what wives are for, isn’t it darling?"

#alucard #castlevania #adrian tepes x reader #alucard x reader #tropevania event #fluff #wife reader #so fun

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yoonjae20 · 6 months ago

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Danny and Constantine's deal.

Inspired by @stealingyourbones 's prompt per @silverblueglitter 's request.

Read on ao3. Masterpost.

When the boy had sought him out, reeking of Death Magic John had wanted to say no on principle.

You don’t get that aura from being involved in normal stuff. John didn’t want to imagine what the boy did to exude such a strong presence and he’s the one who regularly tricks and gambles with Demons. At first he had been convinced the boy had a curse on him or that he was possibly possessed by an angry spirit (and how ironic that had been in retrospect).

To say that John had been taken by surprise was an understatement. One moment he was sipping on a truly awful cup of coffee, while smoking a cigarette and looking at a British newspaper and the next the boy appeared like out of thin air, settled in the chair opposite to him.

The problem? John had been in the House of Mystery — which meant that no one should have been able to find him there. Bloody hell, John had constant problems finding it himself, considering it was sentient and would manifest in different places just to spite John — at least that’s how it felt to the man.

He had startled, his coffee swapping over — but before it could stain either his newspaper or his dress shirt it froze in the air. The Death Magic surrounding the boy almost seemed to spike for a moment.

“Blimey!” John cursed out. “How in Satan’s name did you get in here, mate?”

“I just walked in.”

“You-” John felt himself fuming, before his voice dropped into something falsely calm. “You just walked in?”

“Yes.”

John let out another string of curses before he grabbed the cup with the frozen coffee still inside and threw it at the wall, shattering it. The House of Mystery shifted around them, only the coffee table and two chairs with them on them remaining and taking his pack of cigarettes with it as if to laugh at his misery.

“That feels like a bit of an overreaction, but who am I to judge,” the boy said with a shrug.

John groaned, head in his hands before he collected himself. Okay. Whatever. Taking the last drag of his cigarette he put it out by twisting it on the coffee table.

“So,” he started. “What do you want?”

“A friend of yours told me that you know your way around spells and magic.”

“I don’t have friends,” John stated, deathly calm.

The boy gave him an innocent, but impish smile that screamed “Welp, what can you do?”

“Get lost kid,” John said. “I’m nothing but a con-man.”

“A con-man that lives in a magic house that changes its assortments of rooms as it pleases.”

John narrowed his eyes. Now thinking back, the room he had been in before the boy appeared hadn’t been next to the front door. Not even near it. The House Of Mystery once again changed around them as if to confirm the boy’s words.

“You just walked in?”

“I just walked in,” the boy agrees.

John leaned back to stare at the ceiling, contemplating what he did to deserve this. No — cross that, he knew exactly what he did to deserve this.

“I always knew you’d get me, John. I said so.”

He shook his head to disperse the memory before he leaned back even further, settling his feet on the table just because he could.

“So,” he prompted.

“So,” the boy echoed back.

Suddenly the table beneath his feet disappeared and John flailed as he lost his balance. The chair toppled and he crashed to the floor. The boy suppressed his laughter as John peeled himself off the floor.

“Blummin’-“ John bit back another curse.

“You know you almost seem like a supernatural Doctor Who — only your Tardis hates you,” the boy snickered.

“Ha, ha,” John deadpanned as he picked up the chair and let himself fall into it. “Very funny.”

The boy’s expression changed from amused to serious as he looked John in the eyes.

“Become my mentor.”

“Not a chance in hell,” John scoffed. “Go bother someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

“Tough luck.”

They almost seemed at a stalemate for a moment as the boy paused to think.

“What I give you something in exchange,” the boy offered.

“No offense mate,” John said, “but I doubt you have anything I’d be interested in. You’re what? 12?”

The boy scowled.

“I’m 14.”

“Close enough.” John waved him off. “I’m not a babysitter.”

“I know that for most magic users, the higher and more difficult the spell the more dire the consequences,” the boy suddenly says before John can open a portal to throw him out. “Some people just have the talent and big magic reserves — but I don’t think you are one of them.”

“Hey,” he warned, but the boy just continued to smile at him, not daunted by his tone.

“I can solve your problems.”

John squinted his eyes as he crossed his arms. He knew that his magic reserves were minuscule — honestly that’s the reason why he didn’t try to depend on magic if he could. Why deplete them and risk over exhaustion if the right words have the same effect?

“And exactly how would you do that?”

The Death Magic around the boy flared for a bit as he produced a green glowing ball of energy. John doesn’t need a spell to be able to tell that it could power his spells and that he could use it to fill up his magic reserves if need be.

“With this.” He closes his hand, the orb disappearing. “In exchange, teach me.”

“What? How to use Death Magic effectively?”

The boy rolled his eyes.

“No,” he disagrees. “I mean manipulation. Show me how you were able to swindle Demons and get away with your life.”

John grinned.

“Deal.”

John barely evades an attack as he picks up the phone.

“Do you not watch the news, brat?” he questions through huffs of air. “This is a bad time.”

“You’re like a cockroach, I’m sure you’ll survive,” Danny sounds bored and John doesn’t even have the time to feel outraged — moments like these are when he regrets agreeing to Danny’s deal. The boy is more trouble than it’s worth.

He groans as he is forced back to where the rest of the Justice League Dark is fighting.

“So?” he prompts once again.

“So,” Danny says, cheekily.

“Can we for once not do that while I’m fighting for my life?” John hisses and Danny cackles.

“Fine, fine,” he agrees. “I just wanted to tell you some good news.”

John knits his eyebrows together as he casts a spell with one hand — he isn’t trusting that one bit. Danny has a way to get into trouble and John is often the one who has to get him out of it. Honestly he would think his lessons on manipulating are failing considering what a bad liar he is — if he didn’t know the boy has been actively manipulating him into helping him. At least he got something out of it.

He grabs into his pocket and pulls out the condensed energy from Danny and absorbs it, sighing in relief when his magic reserves get filled up again. That was close.

“Spit it out already,” John huffs out.

“Well you said I’m not utilizing what you are teaching you, so I decided I should do something fun-” Oh no. “So I asked around and oh and behold — I got myself a ticket to a very special Poker Night.”

“And?”

“And now I’m the proud owner of 70% of your soul!”

John blankly stares at the phone in his hand before he puts it back up.

“You little-”

The line beeps and he’s about to throw his phone at the next enemy when a sudden voice behind him startles him.

“Sorry your expression was just too good to pass on,” Danny snickers. “I needed to see it in person.”

“HAVE YOU BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME?”

Danny leans back, floating in the air as he shrugs.

“Maybe, or maybe not.”

John gets the sudden urge to strangle the boy — never mind that’s just how it always is. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he breathes out slowly.

“Constantine,” Zatanna appears next to John and he doesn’t yelp — thank you very much. “Who is your friend?”

“He is not my friend,” John says blankly while Danny chirps, “I’m the major shareholder of his soul!”

John tries to smother the boy with his hand, but Danny just cackles. He withdraws his hand, disgusted after the teen licks it. They are gathering the attention of the rest of Justice League Dark who are still fighting and trying to hold back the invasion.

“Ah,” Zatanna sounds awkward. “I wasn’t aware you are a father, Constantine.”

Danny bursts out in laughter as John stares at the magic user in bafflement.

“Why do I even try?” John complains as Danny pats the man’s back, still snickering. John searches through the pockets of his trench coat and pulls out his flask. “I can’t have this conversation while sober.”

Danny snorts as John empties the flask.

“You guys need help?” Danny questions as he looks around the battlefield. Of course he would be excited about this.

John sighs, but gives his permission anyway.

“Knock yourself out.”

Danny whoops and absolutely decimates the entire invasion fleet.

Danny’s right leg bounces up and down as he looks at the clock. Just 10 more minutes until lunch break — then he can slip away. Constantine had relentlessly called him the past hour which could only mean the man is in need of new ectoplasm. He can only hope that the situation isn’t too dire. He chances a look at his phone and winces. 15 missed calls.

“Daniel Fenton.”

Danny freezes in his spot and slowly looks up. Mr. Lancer is looking down at him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

“What is so important that you can’t pay attention to my class?” The man holds out his hand. “Phone. You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”

Danny sighs as he feels the man’s disappointment. There he goes — and he had been doing so well lately now that he figured out how to deal with his roster of rogues.

Just as Danny is about to place his phone in his teacher’s palm it lights up with another call. Mr. Lancer frowns at the name and it’s with horror that Danny realizes that he saved Constantine as “Con-Man”. Before he can stop the man he accepts the call, turning it on speaker.

“Danny.”

Oh fuck, Constantine sounds pissed.

Danny can’t help but feel guilty. He knows Constantine had survived even before Danny provided him with energy for his spells — but he also knows the man is slowly starting to depend on the extra magic boost.

“I called you 20 times!”

“16,” Danny can’t help but correct.

“You little brat-”

“I’m in class,” Danny interrupts meekly.

Danny can practically hear the moment Constantine realizes what power he holds as his voice turns from angry to amused.

“I see,” he says simply. “I need a new delivery.”

Danny sinks deeper into his seat as the man continues, wanting nothing more than to use his powers to turn invisible and disappear.

“I’ve run out and you know that your stuff is the best.”

Danny closes his eyes. This is karma for all the times he trolled Constantine, isn’t it? He’s purposefully phrasing it in a suspicious way — hell without context it sounds like Danny is selling him drugs.

Danny cringes as he answers, inadvertently making it worse, “I’ll get you the next batch as soon as school is over.”

“Good.”

The line goes dead and the silence is deafening. Danny doesn’t meet Mr. Lancer’s eyes.

“Class is dismissed,” the teacher says. “Danny, please stay back.”

Danny lets his head fall against his desk as he groans.

What follows are the most embarrassing and awkward 15 minutes of his life as Mr. Lancer lectures him and sends him into the break with a “Don’t do drugs” pamphlet.

#dc x dp prompt #dp x dc #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp #john constantine #danny phantom #dc #danny fenton #mr. lancer #house of mystery #justice league dark #constantine is so wet cat coded in this #i feel like i overdid the british slang but oh well #i also know the house of mystery probably doesn't work like this but i don't care #danny is a little shit #yoonjae20 #yoonjae20 writing

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bohemianblasphemy · 8 months ago

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MGG prompt. 🥺 Reid’s favorite holiday is Halloween and he’s disappointed when his plans fall through for the evening so you invite him to hand out candy at your house, and once he arrives he’s very into your Halloween costume, and you end up not passing out any candy. 😉😉

I love me some Spencer Reid ��✨ spooky smut coming your way!!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Contains: Unprotected sex, Spencer fucking you in your costume, Reader receiving oral, fishnet ripping… fun stuff!

“What do you mean you’re not doing Halloween this year?” You were shocked, leaning over Spencer’s desk as he was sitting in his chair.

“My plans fell through… so it’s just sit in my apartment and watch some horror movies that night.” Spencer shrugged, but you could see the disappointment behind his expression. He LOVED Halloween- come October and it was the only thing he’d talk about. You hated seeing him sad, especially during his favourite time of the year.

“Hey, I have an idea.” You said, the cogs in your head turning.

“Come over to mine… we can dress up and hand out candy, watch some scary movies. I don’t want you to be alone…” you said softly, hoping that he would take you up on your offer.

Spencer’s eyes had a spark of excitement from your offer- not only because of Halloween but also because he could spend time with you.

“Y-yeah! I’d like that a lot…” he gave you that goofy smile he always gave when he was excited, making your heart flutter at the sight.

“Great! I’ll um… text you the address, you gotta wear a costume though… or you’re not being let in.” You teased, making him fidget in his seat.

“Oh I will be, don’t you worry.”

- - -

The few days to Halloween rolled by as Spencer and yourself had finalised your plans for that night.

You stood at your bathroom mirror, applying the final touches to your makeup - the pink and blue eyeshadow blended to perfection, bringing your elvira costume together with the tall wig and long black dress that showed off your curves perfectly.

The timing was impeccable as you heard the doorbell buzzing, your favourite boy genius had arrived on time. You eagerly made your way towards the door, opening it to see Spencer… in normal clothing.

“Spencer I told you to dress up!” You said to him, a bit of disappointment in your voice. “What do you mean? I am dressed up…” Spencer smoothed over his shirt.

“I’m an existentialist.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you couldn’t help but laugh. He was such a dork, but you couldn’t help but admire him for it.

“Besides, it looks like you’re the star of our Halloween night…” Spencer smiled softly, his eyes running over you as he admired your costume.

The soft blush on your cheeks was undeniable, smiling sweetly at him. “Thanks Spence… come in.” You pulled the door open wider, watching him walk inside and take in the surroundings of your home.

He saw the giant bowl of candy, meant for any trick or treaters who were to pass by the house but couldn’t help but take a piece for himself.

“Got a lot to choose from…” he smiled as he unwrapped the piece of candy, putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly.

Smiling at him, you nodded. “Whoever comes to the door is gonna have a hard time choosing…”

There was undoubtedly tension between you both, you had no problems speaking when you were at work together but now? The air was just full of unspoken feelings and longing…

“Uhm… i have some movies that we can watch, if you’re wanting to watch something…” you turned around, trying to break the silence that surrounded you both.

“I have Halloween, The Lost Boys, Scream, The Thing- take your pick.” You handed him the DVDS that you had in your hand, he takes them and momentarily grazes his fingers on yours, making the flush on your cheeks burn brighter as you watch him go through the selection of movies.

“The Lost Boys first?” He grinned, seeing the smile on your face.

“My favourite… yes let’s do it.”

The doorbell rang, hearing a muffled “trick or treat!” From behind the wood.

“I’ll get the door… you pop the movie in yeah?” You looked to him as you grabbed the candy bowl.

“Yeah of course.” He looked as you turned around, admiring the way that you looked in your costume as you answered the door to the trick or treaters.

In that time you took handing out candy and closed the door, Spencer had taken a seat on your couch ready to watch the movie, waiting for you to come sit beside him.

Upon your return, Spencer smiled up at you as you sat down. Ready to watch as he pressed play.

The movie plays, the title card with the aerial shot of the carnival in Santa Carla is in view and you focus on the screen- Spencer, trying to get avert his eyes to the screen was looking at you, he couldn’t get over how you looked in that outfit…

He felt bad for not watching the movie, but he enjoyed watching you. He could see the excitement in your eyes as the vampires on their bikes driving off through the sandy dunes and smiled softly at your reactions.

You could feel his eyes on you, knowing that he wasn’t paying attention- but you couldn’t help but love that he was watching you instead of the movie.

You turned to face him, A dash of confidence building up inside you.

“Spence?” You whispered, locking eye contact with him.

Spencer’s eyes went wide and he swallowed hard.

“I-I um…” he stuttered, not being able to look you in the eye. His nervousness settling in as he looked toward his lap.

Using your index finger you pulled his chin up, making him look at you.

“Do you like what you see Spence?” You whisper, your sweet tone sending a shiver down his spine.

Of course he did, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you in your costume.

“Yes…” he whispered, watching you move closer toward him. The gap between you both was agonisingly thin, his pupils blown with desire for you.

Leaning in further, you could feel his shallow, shaky breaths on your lips- feeling his needy desire for you buzzing off of him.

“Do you want this? Do you want me?” You said quietly, smiling at the hitch in his throat.

“Yes… god yes.” He whined, there was nothing in that moment that he wanted more than to have you… to take you.

Taking that opportunity, you moved forward and captured his lips with yours, tasting the lingering candy on his tongue.

Spencer couldn’t help the soft moan that came from within him as you kissed, his slender fingers coming up to your cheek but pausing within an inch of you.

“Can I touch you?” He asked, watching as you nodded. He pulled you into him, his other arm snaking around you and holding you closer as he kissed you once more.

Your hands reached his chest, slowly unbutton his shirt and splaying it open to reveal his torso.

“Pretty boy…” you praised him as you pulled away from his kiss; watching his chest rise and fall shakily at your touch as your fingers ghosted along his warm skin toward the button of his pants, a tent evidently filled the space in front of his zipper.

“W-wait-“ he panted, gently taking your wrist. Leaning forward he encapsulated your lips again. “I-I need to taste you, please.” Spencer’s voice was yearning.

“Hmm…” you replied, a smirk appearing on your lips. “I think that can be arranged.” Spencer watched as you stood up, extending your hand to him.

Taking your hand, he followed you down the hallway to your room. Closing the door behind you Spencer took your waist, walking you backwards to the edge of the bed and lay you down- splayed out for him as your split of your black dress bared your fishnet clad legs.

Spencer looked down at you, in awe of how beautiful he thought you looked in your outfit as he sat down on his knees by the edge of the bed.

His long fingers traced along your thighs, feeling the flimsy material of the tights. He took his bottom lip between his teeth, hands tracing further up your legs to your pelvis.

With a shaky breath, he traced lightly along the front of you- your body quivering for more.

“Can I?” He whispered, looking up at you for permission. After seeing you nod, he didn’t hesitate to dig his fingers in the tights, ripping them open to reveal what lay beneath them making you gasp.

“Spence those were my good ones…” you giggled softly. “I’ll buy you another- fuck I’ll buy you 10 pairs… they look so good.” He praised you, moving closer to where you wanted him most.

So beautiful.” Spencer was in awe as he played with the elastic of your underwear and pulling it to the side, admiring your glistening cunt.

Placing a few kisses to your thighs, he traces his lips up to your pussy- flattening his tongue against you before bringing the tip of it to your clit, swirling around the sensitive nub.

The taste of you was going to be the death of him, moaning at how good it felt- something he could never get enough of.

“Spence….” You breathed out, your hands reaching for his brown hair and pulling at them- eliciting a sudden moan from him as he continued his assault with his tongue.

Your noises filled the room, each going an octave higher as he you reached your peak, the grip on his hair getting tighter as you came hard on his lips and tongue.

Spencer looked up at you, his lips wet with your desire and his eyes filled with want.

Your eyes followed him as he stood up. Starting to fiddle with the button of his pants and letting them fall to the ground at his feet, leaving him in his briefs.

All you could do was stare- your eyes raking over his form, seeing the tent that had formed under his briefs.

He watched your eyes and smirked slightly as he toyed with the elastic, hooking his thumbs under the material and pulling them down setting himself free.

Him standing bare before you was a sight for sore eyes. “God Spencer…” you whispered, admiring him as you went to take off your costume- but he objected.

“Leave it on… please.” He pleaded. “I wanna take you like this…” he said shyly as he took a step over to you and crawled on top the sheets, hovering over you.

He looked over you, seeing you eye him from below in awe- the yearning to feel you overwhelming as he positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with his tip.

“C-can I?” He whispered, his face coming down a few inches from you as you nodded enthusiastically. “Yes Spencer, please…”

Slowly and steadily, he started to move himself inside you- a gasp falling from his lips he moved his hips, listening and watching as your mouth fell open; the most heavenly sound that has ever hit his ears falling from your lips- calling his name and your fingers digging into his shoulders.

His thrusts became faster, more desperate. The eagerness to please you, to feel you- to make you cum the only goal on his mind.

“I-is this good? Please tell me it feels good-“ he was panting, desperate to hear you praise him. “Sp-Spence you feel so good- so good f’me…” you couldn’t help the shuddering words that came out, ecstasy building up in your core.

A small whimper rolled out of Spencer at your praise, whining as he continued rolling his hips into yours. The pressure of his orgasm was building up inside him quickly.

“I-I’m not gonna last.” He whispered, another whine following his words.

“Let go Spencer, please…”

Spencer’s thrusts became more erratic as he watched you fall over the edge- calling out his name as you came hard around him, clenching yourself around his cock.

His breathing became jagged as he felt himself twitch inside you, his orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave as his cum coated your walls.

“God you’re- you’re so beautiful, so perfect…” he watched as you glanced up at him with half lidded eyes and parted lips that had messy red lipstick all over them, basking in the after glow. His hair stuck to his temples, making you giggle as you unstuck it from his head. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that, wanted you…” you smiled, touching his cheek gently as though he was made of glass.

Spencer leaned into your touch, his pupils blown with admiration. “Me too…”

There was a silence between you both, before he piped up once more.

“Definitely the best Halloween I’ve had.” He smiled at his own sentence, making you giggle as he lay down beside you- giving soft touches as he held you close- content with being there in that moment with you.

#Spencer Reid #criminal minds #Spencer Reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #Spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds smut #matthew gray gubler #mgg #matthew gray gubler smut

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leviathanspain · 2 years ago

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OMG I am living for the Finnick content!!! Could I request something with angst to fluff, with the prompt “look at me, look at me, you’re okay, we’re okay”? Maybe set after catching fire when they both wake up in district 13? Thank you!!

watercolor eyes

finnick odair x reader

synopsis: you didn’t think you would ever see those watercolor eyes again…

a/n: i used hearing loss as reader’s injury, there is no real explanation, so make one up :)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

it was a stunning color, almost indescribable. he was saying something, his hands moved frantically, you could see them in your peripheral. yet you remained in a trance with his eyes, watching them as they frantically searched yours. then, you realized his lips were moving, and you couldn’t hear him.

“do you think she can hear us?” he blinked, refusing to get emotional at just the thought. from how close you had been, it definitely could’ve resulted in hearing loss. the rescuing of who they could get in the arena didn’t go very well, and he hated to admit that he almost lost you. how he lost peeta and johanna, something that already weighed heavy on him.

suddenly, a scream erupted from you. finnick rose from your side, hands trying to calm you down. you were getting redder as you screamed, exhausting yourself.

“y/n!” he shouted, hoping you’d hear him and stop, but didn’t realize that you were screaming because you couldn’t hear your own voice.

you were panicking. from the looks of finnick, he could hear you, but you couldn’t hear your loud screaming. you felt the vibrations of your own voice, hand at your throat. but nothing was heard. your breath hitched as the stark realization dawned on you. you couldn’t even hear ringing in your ears.

helplessly, you gripped finnick’s arm as he searched your eyes. a doctor practically sprinted towards you. you panicked, gripping onto finnick as you fought off the doctor, a syringe in his hand. you screamed again, now out of reflex. finnick was trying to calm you down but it was hard for someone who had gone temporarily deaf. or at least he hoped it would be temporary. there was no knowing the damage.

“y/n.” he spoke as if you could hear him, shouting wouldn’t change things. you could feel his fingers on your cheek, gently wiping them as tears escaped your eyes.

you wanted to look at him, focus on his eyes, imagine the engulfing waters of the ocean, free to take you and finnick to places you could only dream of.

but the needle stabbing you wouldn’t let you float your mind away.

you wouldn’t be able to hear the ocean, let alone see it.

you grilled finnick’s arm, eyes fighting to stay connected to his, but they fluttered shut, getting one last glimpse of those watercolor eyes.

finnick watched as your eyes fluttered shut. he had been comforting you in a way he knew wasn’t helping. “you’re okay…” he whispered, “you’ll be okay.” he brushed a hair from your voice as your expression calmed. the doctors had decided to sedate you upon your outburst. “i’m sorry.” he whispered more, laying you down back into the bed, words repeating like a broken record.

it had been a week.

your ears were still sensitive, and you had been ordered to stay away from any and all loud noises, which meant you often stayed behind for when president coin called her meetings.

katniss had been making progress, from what you had gathered in whispers from finnick.

“only whispers.” he had whispered the first words you were able to hear. “doctor’s orders.” he smiled brightly. you exhaled, nodding as you matched his whisper. even the sound of your own voice was excruciating in volume. you had tried to force yourself to get used to loud volumes, but it was impossible.

it was more pain than it was worth, that even sometimes the whispers were too sharp.

so you and finnick often settled for a comforting silence. he would hold you in his arms, brushing your hair from your face as you stared deep into his eyes.

he grounded you, from the moment you met him, he had been nothing but kind. he loved you, killed for you, saved you.

“i love you.” you whispered so quietly you wondered if he could even hear you.

he looked down at you, having glanced away for a mere moment. his smile extended up to his eyes, “i love you more.” he whispered, still careful to be quiet.

#finnick odair oneshots #thg finnick odair #finnick odair x female!reader #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick odair angst #finnick odair smut #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine #thg finnick #hunger games finnick #thg x reader #thg angst #thg imagine #finnick x y/n #finnick odair

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phantomwithbreakfast · 2 months ago

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DANNYMAY DAY 09: Underground

Day 08 • Day 10

⟢ I was getting confused with this prompt. As—underground could mean so many things, depending on the context. But one idea kept clawing back into my brain—corpse AU. And oh, dude. I got way too hyped about it. Turns out, @ghostlyglimmer and I had the same deliciously dreadful idea! Go check out her hauntingly good work here! As for mine? Uhh, well—I turned Danny into uhh—something a little more post-mortem than usual (duhh). Think like—half-dead, half-ghost, full-on corpse aesthetic. Possessed corpse? Danny as a ghostly remnant that crawled his way out of his grave. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Horror • TW/CW: Death — Memory Loss — Identity Loss — Emotional Distress • AU — OOC

Danny was dead. He just didn’t know.

His eyes snapped open to pitch black—thick, suffocating, endless. The silence was too loud.

Then—

A green eerie light. A flickering glow bloomed somewhere in the dark. Acidic light pushed into retinas that no longer needed to see, searing across nerves that shouldn’t be burning. He gasped, or… he tried to. But his lungs didn’t move. His heart didn’t beat. No air, no space. Just… cold.

There was nothing. No memory. No name. No life.

All he knew he was trapped.

I need to get out.

He reached upward, lifting his trembling hands—and they met something rough. Wooden. Dry. Pressed against his palms like a lid. A box. Too small, too tight.

A memory sliced through the fog—white light, searing heat and pain. A scream that never ended.

His.

“No,” he rasped, his voice cracked like brittle glass. “No, no—”

Panic shot through him. His fingers clawed upward again, splinters digging in—except… they didn’t. His hand passed through the lid. Not touching it. Just… slipping.

“The fuck…?”

His breathing quickened—but there was nothing to breath. His chest rose on instinct, not oxygen. There was no warmth, no blood. But something churned inside him, rising from deep within the center of his chest. Something icy. Wild. Terrified.

Realization crept in—this was a coffin. A grave. He was underground, sealed in silence and death.

Six feet under. Buried. Gone.

“I’m not—I’m not dead!”

His body shuddered. A jolt of agony ripped through his spine.

He screamed, and then—something changed.

His clothes tore into black and white in a blur of flickering energy. He didn’t feel it happen. He didn’t mean to. He just panicked—and something inside him answered.

He clawed his way upward, intangible, through dirt and soil and death. His body no longer felt like his own. Cold. Weightless. Wrong.

He burst out of the earth and soil with a gasp he couldn’t feel. And when he looked down at his hands—they weren’t the same. They were covered with white gloves, faintly glowing, trembling. His hair was pearl-white, catching the corner of his glowing green eyes.

And finally, he understood.

He was a ghost.

But he didn’t know who he’d been, didn’t know what he’d lost, didn’t know how he got here or why his bones felt weightless and hollow. Didn’t know what came next.

All he knew was that he’d died… and death hadn’t stuck.

They’d buried him alive—or so it felt. But no… he’d been dead. Truly dead. And now he was back—aware, conscious, no longer rotting in silence. No longer sleeping in that box meant to hold him forever. And now? He was alone, hollow, lost. With no memories, no name, and nothing but the weight of death clinging to his… skin, he had to piece together a life he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not… I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m still here. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t need to breathe—I don’t need oxygen. There’s nothing inside me. No heartbeat. No warmth. Just this… silence and… cold. I’m a ghost. I’m a fucking ghost. Fuck. No. Why? Why wouldn’t you just let me die? Why couldn’t you let me rest in peace?”

He swallowed hard, even though he didn’t need to.

“What do I remember? I remember… a flash—no, a blast—of… of white light, ripping through me. I remember the pain—so much pain—tearing through every nerve like… like fire. I don’t… that’s all. That’s all I have left. There’s… there’s nothing else.”

He grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling so hard like it might help him get his memories back. Confused… he was so confused. Panic consumed him again. He could still feel—but it was hollow, empty. Feeling devastated. Like remembering emotions he couldn’t place. The physical sensations were gone. No pain, no nerves. Just… nothing.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The only thing he felt was weightlessness. Like gravity had let go of him. Like the world no longer needed to hold him down.

He let go of his head, lowering his translucent arms as he slowly turned around. His eyes landed on the stone sticking out of the earth—the one he’d just crawled from.

There was a name carved into it.

“Daniel James Fenton.”

He stared. The letters made sense. He could read. So… not all of his memory was gone. But the name—it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t feel like his. He could still speak. That was something.

“The fuck is happening to me?”

His knees gave out. He sank to the ground, one hand sliding up to the gravestone. His gloved fingers traced the curved lettering with a kind of detached reverence.

“Was that… me?”

He asked himself. But no answer came. He sighed—a useless motion, but it came anyway. Muscle memory, maybe. A mimic of something human.

His fingers hovered over the name like it might spark something—some memory, some feeling. But there was nothing. Just letters. Just stone. Just silence.

“That… is me?”

He whispered again, quieter this time. But the wind didn’t answer either. He stared at the name like it belonged to someone else. Someone real. Someone who was loved, who laughed, who had a life. Someone human.

But that wasn’t him anymore.

Whoever Daniel James Fenton was… he’d been buried six feet under. And what clawed out of that grave wasn’t the same.

He sat back, knees sinking into the soil, the chill of death wrapping around him like a second skin. His white hair drifted in the still night air. His chest didn’t rise. His body didn’t ache. His heart didn’t beat.

But something deep inside him did hurt. And he didn’t even know why.

“I don’t… I don’t know who I am.”

He said, voice barely above the wind, like a broken echo. But the grave didn’t answer.

And neither did the boy… who once lived.

⟢ That second part wasn’t planned—it just came out of nowhere. And I really needed to stop myself before I ended up writing an entire phic about it, lol.

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wonderlandwalker · 3 months ago

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The promises we cling to | Finnick Odair x reader

thg masterlist / inbox / part two

summary: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process

word count: 3.6k

tags / content warnings: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance

a/n: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

[prequel: The masks we wear]

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logaenhowlett · 4 months ago

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COME BACK BABY PLEASE - L.H.

Summary: When it comes to you, Logan would do anything - even break his own heart.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Mature themes (masturbation) 18+ only, Angst (with happy ending), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual pining (but Logan's a stubborn fool), Empath!Reader

A/N: For @lubdubology's and @yxtkiwiyxt's Loveuary Challenge (great idea btw)! The prompt was DoFP!Logan + We Belong Together by Mariah Carey. Also, I hit 500 followers last week and I'm floored, honestly. Thank you so much for all the love and support! Now, back to this gorgeous man.

MASTERLIST

Logan fucks himself into his fist.

Because there you are, latched onto his mind like some parasite.

Iron, harsh and metallic in taste, blooms on his tongue as his jaw locks. A piss-poor attempt to crush the memories of sun-kissed smiles, of tangled fingers - of your love.

It's like holding water in a sieve, you slip through his defenses, elusive and inevitable. He loathes himself truly for possessing such a traitorous heart.

And still, beneath all that armour, it's you he reaches for.

But he doesn't touch you. Can't touch you. Not when you're living and breathing again just beyond his door, as if he hadn't felt your body go limp between his arms, his trembling pleas silenced by a last kiss, an "I love you" murmured against cold lips.

As if you hadn't died.

Jean notices first. Though she'd sworn off trespassing on anyone's mind, least of all his, it's hard not to. His thoughts are loud, but his agony screams louder. It seems even the kids whisper amongst themselves in the hallways - Professor Logan, their beloved hero, now a man adrift.

Everything becomes awfully clear as Charles explains - the reality a lightning strike so blinding it jolts the room. The time travelling, the ever-present fear of failure, the responsibility he'd shouldered in solitude–

You're an idiot.

Jean's voice rings in his head, unwelcome yet painfully true. His eyes lift, her subtle nod drawing his attention to you. And he'd rather flay himself alive, unsheathe his claws into his own chest, than brave the unwavering love written in your tear-filled gaze.

Just talk to her. You're only hurting yourselves–

Stay outta this, Red.

She's right, he knows it. But knowing and doing are two different beasts entirely. Because now, you're here, and here is a minefield. One mistake, one single moment of weakness, and the nightmare could swallow him whole once again.

Stupidly, Logan avoids you.

Mornings are the most torturous. He remembers chasing your lips as you slipped from his embrace only to be drawn back. The sheets would pool around your waist, barely clinging to your frame as you stretched lazily.

Utterly captivated, he'd watch as you moved about, gathering your things, playfully dodging his kisses between buttons and zippers. "If you keep distracting me, I'll never make it to class on time," you'd laugh, followed by his teasing: "That's the fuckin' point, darlin'."

That's how it used to be.

Now, he paces his room, attuned to the creak of your floorboards, the rustle of your clothes, the unmistakable hitch in your footsteps as you perhaps hesitate by his door.

Maybe today, he thinks. Maybe today, you'll storm inside, fists pounding against the walls around his heart, demand answers and finally scream at him for the coward he is.

Much like yesterday, all the days and weeks before, you never do. And that, Logan realises, is the cruellest curse of all.

It's suffocating; a prison of his own making, brick after brick cemented by fear, bars forged in the white-hot fires of regret. Every cell, every corridor, every inch serves a reflection of his self-destruction. And the key? Lost, or perhaps never truly deserved in the first place.

If nothing else, shame doesn't choke him as harshly in here; dull in the way it gnaws at him. Logan closes his eyes, conjuring you between his legs as he's sprawled on his back, one hand gripping his cock, the other fisted in the sheets.

Within minutes, everything blurs. Like shattered glass, fragments of your lives crash and collide. His vision whites out for a heartbeat, then slowly returns, leaving him limp and spent in the darkness.

And then, nothing.

Just a shuddering sigh tinged with disgust. Wet smears on his palm. A small, pathetic offering to some patron saint of loneliness.

You don't remember the last kiss.

Was it in the kitchen, his fingers on your nape, the counter waking all sorts of purples and blues across your back? Maybe on his motorcycle, the engine dying as he dismounted, leather and gasoline twisting in the air? Or perhaps something else entirely?

A silken thread spun from longing unwinds, stretching and stretching through the fog of time; it frays, it thins, it threatens to snap, leaving behind a faint echo.

When was the last time Logan kissed you?

Rain lashes against the windowpanes, moonlight spilling across the floor in flimsy slants. A hollow reminder of his absence, the dent on your mattress glares back rudely. The weight of his bones, the warmth of his skin, his fading presence - reduced to nothing but a shallow impression on the foam.

You remember other moments, though. Lazy days, the kind where he'd rise first, propping himself on an elbow, hair spiking in twenty-odd directions. Sometimes he'd be content with just admiring you, simply ghosting knuckles across your cheek. And sometimes, those fingers would slip lower and lower while he'd mumble all sorts of filth into the valley between your breasts, chasing your sweet dreams away.

Then, there were times when you'd return from missions, bruised and hacked to pieces, but very much alive. And in no more than three strides, his arms would curl around your waist, all fierce and protective. Home had never felt so precious - so real - as it did in those moments.

So, when was the last time Logan kissed you? And did it even matter anymore, when he's so determined to erase you from his life?

As luck would have it, sleep plays the spiteful mistress tonight, taunting glimpses of oblivion only to snatch them away. Across the hallway, Logan's room offers no comfort either, creaking bedsprings, muffled thuds, a growl - more animal than human - rips through the noise.

He's at it again.

Another restless night, grief rolling off him in thick, asphyxiating waves. It bleeds through the walls, and you know, instinctively, he's reliving everything. You need to help him.

What if you only make it worse? What if your touch only deepens the wounds?

Fuck it.

Six steps separate him from you. Six steps you consider crossing every day. Six steps that might as well be infinite. But now, six steps are simply six steps. Trembling, you gently push his door inward.

Clothes litter the floor, cigar boxes lay scattered amongst the clutter on the nightstand, and a trail of empty Jim Beams leads to the rumpled figure on the bed. If your presence startles him, he betrays nothing - his stillness a deliberate barrier, his back a silent rejection of your intrusion.

"Logan?"

No answer comes, just the ragged, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Carefully, you navigate around discarded boots, jeans - and who knows what else - until your knees bump the edge of his mattress.

Tension crackles in the air, and thrumming beneath is a raging current of heartache, a frequency you know all too well. Nights like this have been a constant ever since you've known him.

The first time had knocked you sideways. He'd been much younger then, more vulnerable. More trusting too, in your abilities, in the connection you'd found in each other. Through long, dark hours, through tremors and tears, you'd absorbed the worst of it, steady hands bearing the brunt of his suffering.

"You're shaking..." Hesitantly, as if approaching a frightened deer, your fingertips brush his shoulder. Then, with a slow, reluctant creak of his neck, he turns. Dark circles obscure red-rimmed eyes, haunted and hollow as they find you. He looks broken. More broken than you've ever seen before. "Oh, Logan," you breathe.

He stares, unblinking and effectively mute as if you've materialised from the very air he'd been choking on for weeks. Confusion flickers across his features, quickly shrouded by something grim, something guarded.

"You shouldn't be here," he finally croaks, dismissive in ways that are suspiciously akin to fear. With me. That's what he's really saying.

"I know you're hurting," you whisper, fighting tears that streak down your cheeks anyway. "Let me help you. Let me take your pain away."

A scoff, sharp and unfamiliar, cuts your words. And for a moment, the man before you becomes unrecognisable - a stranger wearing his skin. "Go away, sweet–" Logan snarls, the near-spoken endearment on the verge of escape before his jaws snap shut. He looks away, almost ashamed, scowling at some unseen point across the room. "Just... go."

"I can't."

"Don't make this worse."

"Worse for who, Logan?" you challenge, bitter like he's never heard. But you've had enough. Enough with the walls, the shields, the self-inflicted exile. "Because this– it's killing you. And it's killing me too." Gently, your hand grazes his own, and when he doesn't flinch, you try once again. "Please."

Hope, a fragile little thing, flutters behind the hazel you've long adored. Logan doesn't resist as you settle beside him, instead falling into a much-needed embrace. Warmth seeps into his chilled body, stress ebbing, hard edges softening. He buries his face into your neck, inhaling deeply for the peace he so desperately craves.

From the dark vines of his nightmares, shadowy figures extend scorching hands, poking the edges of his consciousness. And like always, your powers banish them completely, drawing visions of happier times in their absence. Memories, perfectly curated, lovingly held.

His arms tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Like melted wax, Logan molds himself to your touch. For a long time, you simply exist together, soaking in this closeness, this feeling of home. Two puzzle pieces have never fit so well.

"I don't need your help," he mutters into your shoulder, soft and unsure, as if he doesn't believe his own words.

A small, watery chuckle lures his gaze to yours, you offer a kind smile, damp lashes pillowing the affection in your eyes. "I know," you whisper, running a gentle hand through his dark tresses, lingering a little longer by those grey streaks you adore. "But you're letting me anyway." The corners of his mouth twitch in response.

He doesn't speak again, and neither do you. Words feel superfluous, inadequate as the night carries on. Eventually, sleep begins to claim you both, inviting dreams of a tomorrow painted in the colours of a rekindled love.

Dawn arrives, like clockwork, creeping its invasive presence through the curtains. Disoriented, your fingers brush the space beside you, encountering only the cold, vacant sheets.

It's not a surprise, not really.

Old habits, especially Logan's, die hard.

Tires scream against asphalt, and Logan's pissed. The engine growls angrily, replicating the simmering tension rattling his very skeleton. His grip remains unyielding on the wheel, knuckles bone-white, veins protruding.

"That was reckless, and you know it." His tone is clipped, barely controlling the razor-sharp irritation he's unbothered to hide. Darkening roads ahead borrow his attention, as if the blurred lines are the only thing maintaining his composure.

The mission had been a success, technically. But the phantom impact of the debris nearly crushing you still has his adrenaline jacked.

"I'd do it all over again, and you know it," you snap back, daring in the face of his obvious fury.

"For fuck's sake!" Logan bangs his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring for a brief second. "Don't you have any concern for your life?" He doesn't understand your blatant disregard for safety. It's that goddamn martyr complex of yours, always prioritising everyone else. Even if you did manage to save innocent civilians from the collapsing building.

"Don't act like you care!" The venom in your words stings more than he'd ever admit. How can you say that? To him, of all people. "Pull over."

"What?" He shoots you a glance in disbelief, a little afraid even. The request is so absurd, so completely out of left field, he wonders, momentarily, if his mind's playing tricks.

"Pull. Over." You enunciate with a chilling calmness, and somehow that terrifies him more than any outburst. Denial flares in his throat, a knee-jerk reaction waiting for a trigger, but his breath catches, strangled by the sudden movement of your hand curling around the door handle.

The threat is extremely evident. And he just knows you'd do it. Logan slams on the breaks, the car swerves violently before coming to a harsh stop. "What the hell's your problem?"

"My problem is you, Logan. You and your self-sacrificing bullshit! I'm done," you croak. It's not about the mission, he realises with a nauseating lurch in his stomach. It's about everything.

You’re done?

He stares, dumbfounded, frozen to the core until you're unbuckling your seatbelt. "What're you doing?" Desperate, but he doesn't care.

"Walking."

"No the fuck you're not. Safe house's another four miles."

"Good." Cold air rushes in once you exit the car and slowly increase the distance from where Logan sits, alone and upset.

He drove the four miles to the safe house at a snail's pace, fighting the instinct to veer off course and find you. Beg you for forgiveness.

The house was dark and empty when he arrived. With the flickering hope that perhaps you'd reached before him, Logan checked every room. Twice.

Three hours. Three agonising hours since you'd disappeared along an off-beaten path aside the main road. Three hours of replaying the argument, the accusation in your eyes, the finality in your words.

"Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit."

Possibilities, each more gut-wrenching than the last, churn in his mind. You could be hurt. Lost. Captured. Or worse - a thought so unthinkable he tries to shy away.

What if this was it? What if his relentless pushing had finally worn you down, despite the twisted, fucked up part of him that wanted you to fight?

Logan sinks onto the couch, its springs groaning under the weight of his misery. He examines his hands, rough and calloused, capable of inflicting severe damage, yet completely useless in holding onto the one thing he truly cares about.

Suddenly, the steady hiss of running water startles him. Then, it registers. Running water. Like a moth to a flame, he reaches the bathroom in record time, hesitating for a beat before sliding the door open. As the steam clears, Logan stiffens at the scene.

Perched on the edge of the tub, one leg submerged in the water, the other stretched out before you, you stay facing away from him. Wet strands of your hair cling to your neck and shoulders, the damp t-shirt you'd been wearing beneath your suit revealing a faint outline of your bra straps.

A small pouch, one you always carry with emergency supplies, sits open on the floor, its contents spilling out: bandages, antibacterial wipes, sutures - and blood. A thin, crimson line trails down your calf, turning the water a faint, unsettling shade of pink.

"You're bleeding," he says lamely, attempting to quell the guilt - and bile - rising up his throat.

Weary eyes meet his own, but there's something else there. Defiance? Resignation? He can't quite decipher it. "Popped a few stitches," you reply, detached, matter-of-fact. "I'm not the best medic." That's very much known to him, yet your wry shot at humour falls undeniably flat.

Logan kneels beside the tub, fixed on the uneven, inflamed wound you're tending to. It screams of pain and neglect. His neglect. "Let me," he whispers softly. "Please."

And to your credit, you don't oppose his efforts. No winces, no protests, no sounds; he doesn't know what to make of that, instead, working in a meticulous fashion, throwing every stitch with deliberate care.

The minutes tick by, slow and heavy. And after what feels like an eternity, the last stitch is in place, a small knot securing everything together. Sitting back on his heels, Logan doesn't withdraw his touch from your thigh, inspecting his handiwork with a saddened gaze.

"I miss our old life."

Your voice, quiet and laced with an unapologetic yearning, torches the silence, and with it, the remnants of his weakening defenses.

"I'm sorry," he says, tearfully. "For pushing you away. For being an asshole. For letting you... die. I'm sorry for everything."

There's a long pause. Logan contemplates granting you space, giving you the distance he'd so readily forced all along. But then, your hand finds the curve of his cheek, halting his retreat.

"It's not your fault. None of it. I know you did everything you could," you murmur, thumbing away a stray tear. Relief warms his heart, a feeling he recognises as wholly genuine. And it comes solely from you, untouched by your powers. "I don't need to say this, but I will, for you." With a deep breath, you dispel the demons and monsters plaguing his soul in four simple words: "I forgive you, baby."

The iron band around his chest loosens its grip, and Logan takes his first breath all over again. Still mindful of your injury, he gathers you into his arms with a force that nearly throws you off balance.

"I'm right here," you continue, muffled against his shoulder. "I’m alive because of you. So, I'm asking you to come back. Come back to me, Logan."

Tentatively, he tilts his head down, capturing your lips with a reverence so implicitly him. Not even the sweetest nectar could compare to the taste of your love. For it is, quite simply, everything.

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deadghosy · 1 year ago

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I didn't know we could request readers getting hurt. In that case can I request the hotels cast reaction to dogday reader getting the game dogday treatment as an exterminator cuts them in half. Like game dogday they're still alive but ouchy

TW: GORE AND BLOOD MENTIONS (not detailed but it’s there)

HAZBIN HOTEL X DOGDAY! READER

prompt: during the fight against the Angels, you let your guard down at the wrong moment…..

You used your 8ft frame and to slap and crush the angels as Angel dust shoots the angel from your shoulder as husk throw explosive dice and sharp spade cards around you three. It was a good them effort as you had his stomped out an Angel with your huge paw. You were helping the hotel defend against the angels as you never saw this actually coming.

You heard a whimper seeing one of the egg boiz be chased by an angel as you ran over and crushed the angel’s head in your paw that had angelic metal in it. The egg boi immediately cuddled up to you as you picked it up.

You must have been so worried that you didn’t noticed an angel behind you and the egg. But it was too late as the egg boi’s eyes widen seeing an exterminator behind the two of you.

You felt a stab in your abdomen as you looked down to see an angelic spear stab you. You felt blood trickle down your mouth as it burned inside of you.

A piercing scream rang out the battle field as you felt you lose the strength seeing blood pour out. Your friends perk up at that knowing scream of yours. Charlie looks down from the roof with her father to see what was going on. She gasped covering her mouth lookin at you. The angel takes the spear out of you as she slashes your body in half.

Your upper and lower body collided to the ground and blood spill from your mouth hearing foot steps and an evil laughter as you heard someone’s voice. “DONT WORRY! WE’RE COMING SUNNY!” It was all muffled due to the blood loss as you couldn’t hear who it even was.

Blood filled your nose, screams, the feeling of blood loss, and the sounds of bombs blowing up. It all rang in your ears as the last thing you see is the angel who cut you being shot. Before you passed out.

You wake up seeing the crew look down relieved but some had a disturbed face as you tried to move your “legs”…..

Your legs….wait….

You look down to see your bottom half to be gone only to se a bandaged half. Your eyes widen shaking as the white pupils of your eyes disappear. You sob painfully looking down as your dog ears over your face. Charlie covers her mouth seeing your sadness at the lost of your legs as she hugs you .

Angel and husk joins as well as the other as they all crowed you trying to show that they are here for you. You felt loved, but what will you do now…….

Months has passed and you are in a wheel chair. At the loss of your legs, it’s like you became a new person who doesn’t smile much but still grant a smile towards a friend who needs one. You have the slight scent of vanilla but mixed with blood due to the blood in your body at times. Your voice also had changed as the scream you let out ruined your normal vocal cord. So now you sound a little depressed.

But still Charlie helps you to walk with you using your arms. You got the hang of it quickly but you’re use to the wheelchair since it doesn’t take your energy away.

Angel helps you move around in your wheel chair as he makes joke with you as you smile or with either grumble jokingly at his dirty jokes.

Lucifer, he’s trying to find a way to heal you as he feels like he failed to protect you. One of his own people. Even his own friend that he felt like you were as you always was friendly to other and him.

Alastor lets you sleep in your wheel chair as he plays soft jazz in your room or if you want to listen to his radio broadcast

Husk still snuggles again you but not like a cat in your lap type snuggle. Nah he just lays down with you on the couch as you snore while he purrs.

Niffty decorated your wheel chair to your liking as she smiles seeing your grateful smile as she hugs your fluffy arm.

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siilent-wanderer · 5 months ago

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What's the Matter, Baby?

Summary: A playful night on stage leaves Y/N flustered by Jimin’s bold teasing and lingering touches, but the tables turn when a late-night live gives Y/N the perfect chance for a little payback.

Genre: Fluff

Words: 2.2k words

Yu Jimin (Karina) x aespa 5th member! reader

A/N: this prompt has been in my notes for too long. first part was inspired by kariselle :>

The arena was alive with energy, fans waving lightsticks in synchronized colors as aespa performed one hit after another. The group was in their element, owning the stage with every note and step. As the intro to Prologue began, the lights dimmed slightly, creating an intimate atmosphere that left the crowd buzzing with anticipation.

Y/N adjusted her in-ears, stealing a glance at Jimin, who was a few feet away. Her girlfriend looked radiant under the soft spotlight, her wolf cut perfectly framing her sharp features.

As Jimin began singing her solo, her eyes flickered to Y/N. Without missing a beat, she moved closer, her steps deliberate and confident. Y/N barely had time to process what was happening before Jimin reached out, her hand gently finding Y/N’s waist and pulling her closer.

The crowd erupted, their cheers growing louder as the moment played out on the massive screen behind them.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her cheeks heating up as Jimin continued singing, her voice steady and smooth. Jimin’s smirk was subtle but unmistakable, and she didn’t let go immediately, her hand lingering on Y/N’s waist as if she belonged there.

Caught between flustered and amused, Y/N smiled softly, tilting her head slightly toward Jimin as the song continued. She wasn’t sure if the warmth in her chest was from the lights or the way Jimin’s fingers lightly pressed into her side.

Jimin finally released her grip as the chorus ended, but before stepping back, she leaned in just enough for only Y/N to hear. “You’re blushing again,” she teased, her voice dripping with playful confidence.

Of course, Y/N wasn't going to let Jimin win the entire night. During one of their high-energy tracks, “Thirsty,” the choreography placed Y/N beside Jimin for a few key moments. As the last chorus approached, Y/N’s part came up, her voice effortlessly smooth as she sang the line:

“Don’t you, baby”

This time, however, the younger girl turned her head toward Jimin, locking eyes with her and adding a sly wink.

The crowd lost it. Screams echoed through the venue, and the camera caught Jimin’s reaction — a fleeting moment of wide-eyed surprise before she quickly composed herself, her lips curving into an amused smile.

Y/N grinned as she moved back into her position, feeling triumphant. Jimin, however, wasn’t about to let her have the last word.

“You’re playing dangerous games, baby,” She murmured when the two passed each other during the choreography, her voice barely audible over the music.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, a playful glint in her eyes. “Only because you started it.”

The teasing even extended to fan interactions during the encore. Y/N moved toward the edge of the stage to interact with fans. She waved and smiled at the crowd, catching glimpses of their posters and lightsticks.

The leader, always observant, caught sight of a fan holding up a colorful sign that read: “Y/Nrina, please make a heart together!”

A mischievous glint flashed in Jimin’s eyes as she quickly strode over to Y/N, grabbing her hand. “C’mere,” Jimin said, pulling her in front of the fan.

Y/N blinked in confusion but didn’t resist. “What are you doing?”

Jimin pointed at the fan’s sign. “They want us to make a heart.”

Before Y/N could respond, her girlfriend raised their hands to form the perfect heart shape. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Y/N, flustered but smiling, glanced at Jimin, who was grinning like she’d won the lottery.

“You’re shameless,” The younger girl muttered under her breath, though the fondness in her tone was unmistakable.

“Maybe,” Jimin replied, her smirk widening as she leaned closer. “But you love it.”

But still, the cheeky moments didn't end; Jimin was having too much fun. During one of the talk segments, the girls took turns speaking to the fans. Y/N was in the middle of answering a question when Jimin leaned into her space, tilting her head dramatically.

“What are you doing?” Y/N asked, her voice full of suspicion.

“Offering my cheek,” Jimin replied innocently. “You can pinch it if it helps you focus.”

The fans screamed as Y/N rolled her eyes but gave in, lightly squishing Jimin’s cheek with her fingers. Jimin grinned at the camera, clearly enjoying the interaction.

Later in the set, during a brief break between songs, Jimin was adjusting her in-ear monitors when Y/N, emboldened by the previous moments, walked up and gave her cheek a quick, playful squeeze. The leader pretended to pout, but her laughter betrayed her.

“You’re getting bold,” Jimin teased as her girlfriend walked away, her shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

By the final song, Jimin turned the tables again, leaning in close to Y/N and whispering, “Your turn,” before pinching Y/N’s cheek lightly. The playful exchange didn’t go unnoticed, and the fans cheered even louder.

Backstage, the atmosphere was electric as the members celebrated another successful concert. Y/N sat on the couch, still trying to process the whirlwind of moments that had just unfolded on stage.

“You were great out there,” Jimin said as she plopped down beside her, her smirk already firmly in place.

Y/N turned to her, narrowing her eyes. “You mean I was great at being your target?”

The older girl feigned innocence, tilting her head. “What? I was just in the moment.”

“You pulled me in, unnie. In front of everyone,” Y/N pointed out, her voice laced with mock exasperation.

“And they loved it,” Jimin replied smoothly, leaning back against the couch. “You didn’t seem to mind, either.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “You’re insufferable.”

Jimin laughed softly, nudging Y/N’s shoulder. “Admit it — you had fun.”

Y/N peeked through her fingers, her expression half-annoyed and half-amused. “I’ll admit one thing,” she muttered under her breath, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Jimin raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “What’s that?”

Y/N smirked, standing up abruptly. “You’ll find out soon enough, unnie.”

Jimin leaned back against the couch, her fingers idly brushing through the ends of her hair as a smirk tugged at her lips. Y/N’s parting words replayed in her head, and she couldn’t help but feel a spark of curiosity mixed with amusement. What exactly did her girlfriend mean by "soon enough"? Jimin wasn’t one to get caught off guard easily, but Y/N’s mischievous glint made her wonder if she was in for a little payback. Not that Jimin minded — after all, the playful give-and-take between them was part of what made their relationship so exhilarating. With a chuckle, she stood up to join the others, already bracing herself for whatever Y/N had up her sleeve.

After winding down from the concert, the members dispersed to their respective hotel rooms, their energy still buzzing despite the late hour. Y/N trailed behind Jimin as they made their way down the hallway, sharing quiet laughs about the night’s events. Once inside their shared room, Jimin dropped onto the bed with a satisfied sigh, while Y/N grabbed her phone from the nightstand. “We should go live,” Y/N suggested, glancing at Jimin with a playful glint in her eye.

Jimin raised an eyebrow, already sensing the mischievous undertone in her girlfriend’s voice. “You’re not planning anything, are you?” she asked, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

“Of course not, unnie,” Y/N replied innocently, though the way she busied herself setting up the phone made Jimin suspect otherwise. Moments later, they were propped on the couch, the live counter ticking up as MYs flooded in, completely unaware of the playful chaos about to unfold.

“Hi, MYs! Did you enjoy the show?” Jimin asked, her sweet smile lighting up the screen.

Y/N leaned closer to the camera, tilting her head playfully. “You guys were so loud tonight, like seriously. My ears are still ringing!”

The chat immediately flooded with responses:

“IT WAS AMAZING 🥹🥹” "YOU GUYS WERE SO CUTE EARLIER" "they were def flirting at the concert" “WE LOVE YOU, Y/N!!” “Karina unnie, your voice was so perfect in ‘Illusion’ 🥰”

Y/N nudged Jimin. “They’re saying you killed it tonight. Again.”

Jimin’s cheeks turned pink as she laughed shyly. “Thank you, everyone. I hope I did well.”

“I mean, you always do,” Y/N said with a soft grin, her voice so casual yet genuine it made Jimin glance at her for a second longer than necessary.

Reading through the comments, Y/N’s eyes lit up when she spotted one in English. “Oh, this one’s for you, unnie,” she said, turning to her girlfriend. “Rina, can you say, ‘I love MYs’ in English?”

Jimin nodded, winking as she repeated, “I love MYs.”

The chat immediately exploded with love for her pronunciation:

“OMG SHE’S SO CUTE 😭😭😭” “karina’s accent is EVERYTHING 💕” “Protect her at all costs!”

Y/N giggled, leaning toward her and giving Jimin a thumbs up. “Perfect, unnie. 10 out of 10.”

Jimin glanced at the phone. “Y/N, what are they saying now? I can’t read this fast.”

“Oh, they’re saying…” The younger pretended to squint at the screen dramatically. “‘Y/N and Karina should date.’”

Jimin’s eyes widened as she lightly pushed Y/N’s shoulder. “Yah! Don’t make things up!”

“I’m not!” Y/N laughed, pointing at the screen. “Look, someone literally just wrote ‘Y/Nrina is real.’”

“THEY SEE US OMG 🚢💖” “Y/NRINA ENDGAME???” “her reaction is so suspicious LOL”

Still grinning, Y/N decided to mess with her again. “Ah unnie, I have a question for you.”

Jimin, unsuspecting, tilted her head. “Hmm?”

“Would you rather eat a baby goat or a matter baby?” Y/N asked, her tone as innocent as she could muster.

Jimin blinked, her confusion immediate. “What?”

“Would you rather eat a baby goat or a matter baby?” Y/N repeated, biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Jimin’s brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. “What’s a matter baby?”

Y/N’s shoulders began to shake with giggles.

Jimin repeated louder, “What’s a matter baby??”

And that was it — Y/N broke into full laughter, clutching her stomach as she tried to speak. “I don’t know! What’s the matter with you, baby?”

Jimin’s eyes widened as realization hit her. “Yah!” she exclaimed, smacking the younger girl’s arm lightly. “Why are you teasing me like this in front of MYs?”

Still laughing, Y/N leaned into the camera. “Ah, mwoya, she doesn’t understand!”

The comments went wild:

“I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING HELP 💀💀” “did she just call Karina ‘baby’???” “Jimin looks so done LMAOOO” “OMG THEY’RE SO CUTE 😭😭” “jiminjeong and y/nselle found dead in the ditch 😭🤣”

Jimin pouted at the screen, still flustered. “You’re embarrassing me!”

Y/N, grinning ear to ear, leaned closer to her girlfriend. “You’re cute when you’re confused, though.”

Fans, of course, noticed everything:

“THE WAY Y/N LOOKS AT HER 😭” “Y/N just called her cute, I’m not okay.” “karina’s flustered reaction… she’s so sus omg”

As the live continued, the two shifted back into lighter conversation, with Y/N reading English comments and making Jimin try random phrases, from “I’m a baddie” to “slay queen.” Each time, Jimin’s slightly hesitant but earnest delivery had the younger girl laughing until tears streamed down her face.

Toward the end of the live, Jimin finally mustered her courage. “Y/Nnie, read this one,” she said, pointing at a comment.

Y/N squinted dramatically at the screen. “What does it say?”

Jimin smirked. “It says, ‘Y/N, stop flirting with Karina.’”

Caught off guard, Y/N blinked before bursting into laughter again. “They’re not wrong!” she teased, nudging Jimin.

The fans were left in a frenzy:

“EXCUSE ME, WHAT???” “they’re basically confirming it at this point bruhhh” “Y/Nrina is canon now”

Jimin’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned her attention back to the chat. “Anyway, MYs, what’s your favorite song from the concert tonight?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

But Y/N, still grinning, leaned against her shoulder, clearly not letting the moment go. The fans noticed every little glance and interaction, and the comments continued to flood with hearts and ship names.

As the live wrapped up, Jimin sighed, half in exasperation and half in affection, as Y/N whispered teasingly, “You’re lucky you’re so cute, baby.”

Jimin gave her a warning look, but her shy smile betrayed her. After the live ended, Twitter and Instagram lit up with posts dissecting every glance, laugh, and moment of interaction:

“the way Y/N looked at karina during the live… HELLO? 🚨”

“Jimin is so soft around Y/N, it’s adorable”

“Someone make a compilation of Karina’s reactions to Y/N teasing her, PLEASE I’M BEGGING”

“if Y/Nrina isn’t real, then explain this: 👇” [Karina’s shy smile after Y/N’s compliment]

And for days afterward, fans couldn’t stop talking about the undeniable chemistry between them, shipping hashtags and edits popping up everywhere, as if the truth was hidden in plain sight.

#aespa imagines #karina imagines #karina x reader #yu jimin #aespa scenarios #girl group imagines #fem reader

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nightingale-prompts · 6 months ago

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Godling-DCxDP prompt

Many don't understand what it's like to gaze into the abyss. To truly know the haunting moment it gazes back. Even fewer can see still stand to throw themselves into that abyss.

Tim never understood why cultists worship monstrosities, being that promised the end of everything for nothing in return. He had seen the remnants of human sacrifices, rituals gone wrong, and man-made horrors beyond human comprehension. Part of him regretted agreeing to partner with Constantine to solve these cases. But another wanted to know more.

After searching through another half-destroyed tome he found something. A location to a summoning circle, an ancient one that these cultists were searching for. The one they needed to finally successfully summon their god.

But they got there too late. The cult had finished their ritual and the "god" they had summoned stood before them.

That god was...perfect. Disgustingly perfect, dreadfully beautiful, and horrifyingly enchanting. His mind etched every detail in his memory. It felt like his mind had conjured this person from his dreams, day and night. It was like looking at an illusion. But his eyes were a hellishly bright Lazarus green.

The cultist bowed to him and his smile, his perfect unnaturally white smile was full of soft warmth. Tim understood at that moment why they worshipped him. Their minds couldn't escape this web of divine energy. They were so enraptured by finally seeing prove of the divine.

"You all have done enough. Your souls will come with me. To the abyss." He said calmly as he waved his hand and each cultist dissappeared.

He sighed softly as he turned his gave to Tim and John.

"You offed 'em? I thought they were your followers." Constantine said gruffly.

"I have no followers. These souls have caused so much damage to this world. They can't be allowed to stay here."

"So you decided to rapture them?" Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"It's complicated. Yes, they did horrible things but if they hadn't discovered the tomes of the old king they wouldn't have ended up this way. Have pity on them. They are just mortals scared and confused searching for meaning. Like I was. I have sent them to the abyss. Their souls with dissipate into the void. There will be no pain. No eternal punishment. Just an end. They will be at peace, I promise. It is what they want." The god's voice echoed, his features rippled as he moved showing afterimages of alternate forms he used.

It was odd. Every fiber of Tim's being screamed for him to bow, to worship, and to give himself to this being. Yet, his feet remained stubbornly planted on the ancient dusty floor.

"Don't look directly at it," Constantine whispered hissed.

Right. You probably shouldn't stare at the otherworldy being that likely has mind warping abilities. Especially one that just said he erased his own followers from existence and saying it was a good thing.

"I'm really sorry. I should make it up to you. Clockwork will be pissed enough that I interfereed so I have to do something to at least make up for this mess."

"You can kick off by doing one and buggering off" Constantine said immediately.

"So cold. How about you? What do you want?"

"I think an explanation would help," Tim said only to get elbowed by Constantine.

"You ain't gotta know nothing, mate. The more we know, the dodgier it gets." Constantine said firmly. "Whatever you are, you need to bugger off. You’ll wreck the noggins of everyone around you."

"I don't mean to. I don't ask people to become obsessed with me or worship me. Mortals have such weak minds they cave at my presence. But I can't help it. I lost my human body recently and can't turn this off."

The being groaned but to human ears it was similar to a purr.

"Seriously, everything I do is filtered through some sensory thing that makes you little mortals think its the greatest thing ever no matter how simple. Touching you would probably melt your brain with how good it would feel. So the trench coat man is probably right."

"You said you lost your human body. How?" Tim asked still staring at the floor as he felt the godling came closer.

"A bad fight. My mortal form wasn't indestructible but saving my family made it more than worth it. But...I haven't seen them since. Im still getting used to this while thing. I just wanted to reach out and find some answers so i reached into this universe and well...you can probably tell what happened next. I just wanted to make it right and fix it. The other ancients said this was the best option and..."

Every moment he spoke the less godly he seemed.

Constantine still wasn't willing to help and had to drag Tim away. When Tim actually tried to look up the godling was gone.

"Never do that again." The brit said sternly. "Now help me clean this mess up."

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #tim drake #red robin #john constantine #dc constantine #dead tired #brain dead #deadtired

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qlossytbh · 1 year ago

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𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞? - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐮!𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 where you find yourself with immense baby fever

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 baby fever, fem!reader, fluff fluff fluff, established relationship, reader and spencer are married, hotch x platonic!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.5k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 so i imagined older spence but younger jack so pretend jack is around 3 or 4 but spence is like around season 7/8 (?)

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“All I’m saying, you could’ve been a little nicer,” You turned to Morgan with a rigid sigh. If he didn’t know you better, it’d probably sound like you were deeply annoyed with him, on the verge of cursing him out. He knew you were only regarding the events of today's case.

“I think you’re mixing ‘being nicer’ with tough love,” You deadpanned at your friend, earning nothing but his signature snicker.

You shook your head, feigning that of disappointment. You rolled your shoulder back, craning your neck slightly to scan the files that rested between your fingers. God, how many files could one see in a day?

It was a few hours past midday when the case came to an end. Hotch had a sudden dilemma that he needed immediate solving, so he told all of you to make it back to headquarters. You and Morgan however, had been stuck together for the day and made it back a lot earlier than the rest of the team, prompting the two of you to get some necessary paperwork done.

You needed a day off— especially from Morgan.

The bullpens doors opened unexpectedly, drawing you and Derek out of your conversation. You turned, seeing the rest of the team waltz through the glass door— only this time, they were accompanied by a pair of small legs.

You couldn’t stop a reflexive smile from growing onto your face. “Is that who I think it is?”

Jack waddled into the bullpen, one of his tiny fists bundled up onto a small section of Hotch’s dress pants. You could’ve screamed, a reaction that was becoming more necessary every time you saw a kid, and most definitely when you saw Jack.

At the sound of your cheery voice, Jack looked up, biting onto his knuckles— something you learned was a sign of his bashfulness.

But when he realized it was you who was standing next to Morgan, his face immediately morphed into one that could only portray pure and innocent child joy, looking as if he couldn’t be happier to see you. Nothing could compare to how ecstatic that made you feel, chest getting fuzzy with endearment. Hotch placed his palm onto the back of his head. “Look who it is!”

You've taken care of Jack too many times you lost count, given since you and Hotch were close— practically family. You adored Jack and found yourself being struck with some newfound motherly instinct when it came to him— or any kid for that matter. He always gave you this very violent need to squeeze his cheeks and hug him so tight he might pop.

“Is that little Jackie?” Your voice was high and welcoming, trying to hide how utterly joyed you were with seeing him and failing miserably. Jack immediately pushed himself off of Hotch’s leg and began running towards you.

Well, he more so waddled his way over to you, small feet pattering roughly against the floor as he ran over to you in an unstable line. You met him halfway, crouching down and opening your arms for him. When he was close enough, he launched himself into said arms, voice loud with giggles and shrieks. “If it isn’t my favorite boy!”

You squeezed him tightly, rising once again to your natural height and hugging the small toddler. Morgan, of course, didn’t miss a beat to taunt. “Careful, Reid’s listening.”

“Oh please,” You rested Jack on your hip, keeping strong secure arms around him while he gripped the ends of your hair curiously. “Spencer knows that Jack comes first no matter what, isn’t that right Jack?”

“Yeah!” He laughed.

Spencer couldn’t keep in a single thought as he watched you interact with Jack so naturally. It twisted his chest in weird, scary ways. If it were anyone else he’d be terrified. But it was you. And he now found his head lingering with the idea of you as a mother— the mother of his children, specifically.

It was a conversation the two of you had once, very briefly a few months after you two got married. Spencer had been meaning to get back at it, but with the chaos of your jobs it had been really hard to think about anything other than serial killer and criminals.

But fuck, if Spencer said that seeing you interact so carefully and sweetly with not only Jack but many other children that had stumbled up on these last few cases— he’d be the biggest liar on the face of this earth.

Just the thought of starting a family with you was something that filled him with anticipation. It made his chest burn. Something he craved so deeply, it sometimes left him breathless.

“You’re getting so big and strong that I’m beginning to have a hard time lifting you up.” You huffed, setting him down onto the ground and crouching beside him. “You’re gonna give me back problems.”

“Derek says it’s because you’re getting weak!” His R’s were disguised as muffles W’s, which only caused your heart to clench further. A choke disguised as a strained laugh left your mouth.

“Is that so?” You turned over to him with a glare. Morgan scratched the back of his head and turned on his heel avoiding you and your piercing gaze.

“But who’s your favorite; big old chiseled Derek, or little weak me?” You squint your eyes at the boy, pursing your lips feeling very confident in his answer.

And to no one’s surprise did Jack point towards you and with a huge, wide smile laughed out. “You!”

You laughed victoriously, holding out a palm for Jack to clap. “Yeah, that’s right!”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan groaned.

After one last hug from the child, you ushered Jack over to Hotch, shooting an endeared smile towards him. God, you loved that kid so much.

JJ, Prentiss and Rossi made their way to the conference room. You look ahead, meeting the gaze of your husband and smiling profusely. It was a subconscious reaction your body had. You found yourself meeting Spencer halfway. “Hey,”

His hand rested on your hip as he leaned down, kissing you chastly. Spencer would’ve loved to actually take his time greeting you with a much proper kiss, but it was a middle ground the two of you found between professionalism and well— being married.

His hand, however, remained on the spot on your hip, thumb drawing circles instinctively. It was subtle, but his touch was still there. Your smile was big and lovestruck, looking up at him with soft eyes. “Hey,”

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, Jack's laughter ripped through the air as Hotch lifted him up. You and Spencer turned and you swear you could almost cry.

It was as if lately, when you allowed yourself to think even slightly about the concept of children you’d combust into a pool of tears and overbearing endearment. Spencer watched you looking over at Jack and noticed something pooling beneath your eyes.

You looked back at Spencer, lips tied in a pout. “I want one.”

“A baby?” He tuned, laughing slightly at how your body sunk against his, resting your forehead on his chest in exasperation.

“Yes,” You pushed yourself off his chest, throwing your hands around as you spoke. “The small hands, small feet— I swear everytime I see a baby, I get violent.”

You pouted. “Imagine a mini us Spence,”

And Spencer did. He thought about it in such detail that he forgot it wasn’t an actual reality of his. A little girl or boy, that resembled either of you, that held so many fractions and traits of the two of you— it seemed unreal to him.

“A mini us?” He repeated. You looked up at him.

“Well— yeah,” You reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean, we haven’t really talked about it but..”

Spencer wanted kids more than he had ever wanted anything before— but he knew that he only wanted it if it was with you. He couldn’t phantom the thought of starting a family with anyone else.

“We should,” He spoke. Your fingers played mindlessly with the bottom of his tie, looking up at him with a teasing smirk.

“We should talk about it or we should try?” A blush crept up his cheeks as his eyes widened just slightly. You always found ways to catch him off guard and you loved getting even the slightest reaction out of him.

“Uh—“ He dragged out his words, before his eyes landed back on you. “Both?”

You laughed and he smiled. He always smiled when you laughed, he couldn’t stop himself from doing so. You reached down, tangling your fingers with his. “I’m serious though,”

He hummed. “So am I.”

“You actually want to start trying for a baby?” This seemed like a conversation that was far too intimate to be having in the middle of the bullpen— where you usually discussed varieties of atrocious things, but here you were I guess.

“Yeah,” He said, almost in disbelief that you had questioned it. You found yourself growing oddly shy, just thinking of a small version of the two of you running around.

Before you could continue on the subject, Morgan, who now held Jack on his shoulders, was calling you and Spencer over to the conference room. You turned to Spencer, smiling softly.

“Can we get back to this once we get home?”

“Please,” He breathed, leaning forward and pressing a longer kiss onto your lips. You grew giddy and smiled into the kiss, pulling away sooner than both of you would like.

“I love you,” You smiled. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and placed a loving kiss on your forehead.

“I love you.”

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hirayalore · 5 months ago

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“what—”

SIRIUS BLACK blinked, not processing what just happened as he found himself back at grimmauld place.

it was only mere seconds ago that he was at the department of mysteries, having a duel against bellatrix with harry battling alongside him. everything felt so exhilarating—he was having the time of his life, conjuring a bunch of offensive and defensive spells towards bellatrix’s way, releasing some of the pent up tension he had been trying to tame while cooped up and hidden inside the order’s headquarters.

then all of a sudden, in a moment of recklessness, a spell abruptly hit him hard on the chest, causing him to stumble backwards and almost trip on his feet at the impact.

almost.

because just when he thought he was going to fall in the veil behind him, he heard you scream his name in a manner he has never heard before. it was piercing, the kind to emit shivers on the spine, the kind he was certain he was going to remember for days on—and the next thing he knew, before he could understand the lay of events, he was here at his old home with you right in front of him, holding onto his arms so tightly that he could feel your nails digging in his skin.

the both of you had apparated, he finally realized. you had rushed to him before he could fall and grabbed him, teleporting the two of you to the one place you could think of that could keep you safe.

“____,” he began as he dawned on him what prompted you to do such a thing. “i—i’m so sorry, love. i—”

“i hate you, sirius.” you practically spat on his face, venom lacing your tone as you let go of him and instead started punching him hardly on the chest. “so fucking reckless—doesn’t fucking think about anything but himself—”

he took your jabs without complaint, letting you take out your frustration even if the spell that almost knocked him over still made it hard for him to breathe.

“you could’ve—” you continued, each punch harder than the last, a stream of tears falling on your cheeks now as it continued to sink what could have happened if you weren’t fast enough— “you really do want to leave me, don’t you? want me to bloody fend for myself again, be left alone, be without you after already suffering for merlin knows how long—”

“i’m sorry,” he said, his voice coming out as a whisper in shame of his rashness earlier. “darling, i didn’t mean to be so foolish with my actions. i wasn’t thinking, really, i’m so sorry.”

you huffed out a scoff, giving him one last shove and turning away, walking towards the wall where you lean on it for support.

you were on the verge of hyperventilating, your heart was beating so fast, and little noises were coming out of your lips as the sobs couldn’t stop. the only thing keeping you standing was how you were resting on the partition as even your knees felt like giving out.

no matter how much you tried to calm yourself down, to push away the thoughts of sirius being permanently taken away from you, you couldn’t. you couldn’t erase that horrible feeling of knowing you could have lost the love of your life again tonight—with this time no longer having the opportunity to ever bring him back to you if he did.

in an instant, sirius embraced you from behind, murmuring his apologies again and again despite knowing he couldn’t fix the damage he had done easily due to his negligence.

you didn’t force him off, but you didn’t reciprocate his gestures as well, your body shaking uncontrollably because of still being stricken with the reality of almost losing him.

with utmost gentleness, he spun you around so that you were back facing him, his calloused hands tilting your chin up in order to look at your eyes that were bloodshot and wet. he kissed your cheeks, a lingering kiss that prompted you to let out a whimper, before he kissed you full on the mouth, so much tenderness and remorse being poured into the gesture.

“i’m sorry, love,” he murmured against your mouth. “it was just a lapse of judgment, okay? i’d never want to leave you again. i will never leave you, you hear me? you’re stuck with me for an eternity.”

you gazed up at him, encircling your arms around his neck and pulling him towards you for another kiss, desperate to physically feel him which he was more than willing to oblige.

“stop being so reckless, sirius,” you pleaded, your fingers tangling in his hair, your kisses persistent. “you can’t keep on doing this to me.”

“i know, i know.” he returned the same intensity that you were showing him, caught up with the rush of sudden yearning. “i’ll be better. i won’t make you worry.”

you no longer bothered replying, you just continued to kiss him, dragging him with you to the nearest room you could wander into, a silent order that if he wanted to make it up to you, he should start by making you feel every part of him until it was clear to you that he wasn’t going to be anywhere else.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

#sirius black x reader #sirius black #sirius black imagines #sirius black drabbles #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagines #marauders #marauders imagines #marauders fanfiction #mauraders drabbles #marauders scenarios #sirius black scenarios #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black fanfiction #harry potter drabbles

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cressidagrey · 9 months ago

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Brighten Up the Sky

This started as a prompt from the lovely @satiresunflower, (though it is pretty much unrecognisable from the prompt she actually gave. She did give me permission to go wild though, so this is what you get lol)

This starts in Chapter 14 of ACOWAR, so some of the sentences are taken verbatim from the original text. I did change it into 3rd person, because me trying to write in 1st person never ends well. I also think there is a longer story in this particular idea, but quite frankly, I don’t have it in me to write it right now.

Summary:

A Mating Bond between her younger sister and the Night Court’s shadowsinger was the last thing Feyre had expected to spring up…but then, maybe it did make sense.

Warning:

Public Displays of affection, kinda Nesta bashing, but like...she has her reasons?, Cassian being annoying

(Lovely dividers thanks to @cafekitsune)

“Where are my sisters?” Feyre asked, the thought clanging through her head as jarring as a pealing bell.

Her sisters

Rhys paused for just a moment, his hand slipping from her hair as his smile faded. “Elain and Nesta are at the House of Wind.” He straightened, swallowing. “I can—take you to them.” Every word seemed to be an effort.

But he would, Feyre realized. He’d shove down his need for her and take her to them, if that was what she wanted. Her choice. It had always been her choice with him.

Feyre shook my head. She wouldn’t see them—not yet. Not until she was steady enough to face them.

“They’re well, though?”

His hesitation told her enough.

“They’re safe,” Rhys answered quietly.

"That’s good," Feyre murmured as she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the swirling, churning emotions inside her chest.

Her sisters...her sisters were safe. That was something. That was enough. For now.

Only then she realised something else.

“You said Nesta and Elain are at the House of Wind,” Feyre pointed out, her hands clenching, her heart beating faster. “Where’s Alana?” she demanded, singling out her younger sister…singling out her half sister.

The result of their father’s dalliance with a maid during her mother’s pregnancy with Feyre. Alana was just 6 months younger than her. Alana’s mother had died during childbirth…so their father had been saddled with another squealing infant that his wife was ill-pleased with.

Nesta liked to say that that affair had eventually killed their mother. Feyre thought it to be ridiculous. It had been a fever and Alana had nothing to do with it, because she had been a literal child…and Alana had lost her voice to the very same fever. Feyre could still remember her singing like a pealing bell when she had been a child…and then…then she hadn’t been able to anymore. Even talking was near impossible for Alana, her throat unable to produce any sounds.

Even as Alsna had been thrown into the cauldron…Her mouth had been open in a silent scream, but no sound had come out of her mouth.

A shudder ran through her at that memory.

Alana. Her sweet, quiet younger sister. The sister that always smiled too sweetly and saw too much with those sharp eyes of hers.

"Where is Alana?" She repeated. The silence in the room hung thick in the air as Rhys continued to hesitate.

A prickle of unease started to make its way up her spine.

“Rhys, where is Alana?!” she demanded, her voice rising.

“She’s safe, I swear,” Rhys hurried to promise her. “She’s not staying with Nesta and Elain but she’s safe. She should be here soon. I think…everything else…you should ask her about that.”

His words did little to soothe her worries, the unease that now clawed up her spine stronger.

“You’re not telling me something,” she pointed out, her brow furrowing. “Rhys, what are you not telling me?”

She thought back to the last time she had seen her sister…thought back to her being poured out onto the wet stone floor from the cauldron…not a noise had come from her…nothing. She had…She had been poured out of the cauldron and had just kneeled on that stone floor as they had forced Nesta into the cauldron after her.

She hadn’t…she had been…absent. Like the cauldron had taken too much from her.

And then, in the moment as Mor had pushed Lucien away from Nesta and Elain, Feyre had seen Alana lunge.

Not for the King of Hybern. Not even for Mor, who would have been closer to her…But for Cassian and Azriel for some reason. She wasn’t sure what had been Alana’s reasoning. Wasn’t sure what…Rhys had grasped all three of them and winnowed them away.

Her heart was now hammering.

“What did you do with her?” Feyre demanded, her voice growing panicked. “What did you do with Alana? Why isn’t she staying with Nesta and Elain?” Feyre asked, her voice forcedly calm. “Rhys, what is going on?”

There was another moment of hesitation, another moment of silence, before Rhys finally replied. "She just…opted to stay elsewhere."

Those words did little to reassure her.

"Where?" Feyre pressed, her eyes narrowed.

Rhys sighed. “How about you get into that bath that should be ready by now?” he suggested. “I’ll…tell you some of what happened. But I do think that some of the things should come from Alana and not from me,” he pointed out drily.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was take a bath, the last thing she wanted to do was to be pacified with pretty words and nice things. That was the last thing she wanted.

But...he was right. She needed to be clean.

Feyre growled at her mate, but stomped into the bathing chamber, stripping out of her clothing. Her fingers were near-black with dirt and caked blood.

Rhys snapped his fingers, and her skin was nearly instantly pristine again. “Tell me what happened,” Feyre said flatly, as she sunk into the blood-hot water. “Why isn’t Alana staying at the House of Wind?”

Rhys was silent for a moment as he looked at her, his mouth in a grim line.

Then he let out a deep sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bathing tub. “A lot of things happened,” Rhys said drily. “But the biggest reason why Alana isn’t at the House of Wind is mostly that…I can’t guarantee Nesta’s safety, if she keeps spewing some of her venom in Alana’s direction.”

Feyre’s brow shot up at that, her heart skipping a beat. “What?” she demanded. “Rhys, what are you talking about?” That didn’t sound—didn’t sound like...

To say that Nesta and Alana didn’t get along was an understatement. Nesta gave Alana the fault for seemingly everything and Alana…well, she played deaf. And even more mute than she normally was. Even when Feyre‘s sister hadn’t been able to talk, she had been more than able to communicate if she wanted to, either with her expressive face, or her hands. And still, Alana had pretended like it wasn’t happening. Elain was no better to her…Elain liked to ignore Alana’s very existence.

But Alana wouldn’t have done anything…Alana wouldn’t have…

“Alana doesn’t lose her temper,” Feyre said carefully as she looked at Rhys. “She doesn’t.”

“She didn’t,” Rhys said drily. “My spymaster did.”

A puzzled frown crossed over her face at that. “Azriel?” Feyre asked, her eyebrows furrowing. “What did he do?”

Azriel had lost his temper with Nesta?

“If Cassian hadn’t been there, I think Azriel would have torn out Nesta’s throat with his bare hands,” Rhys said with a grimace. “It was…bad.”

Feyre’s jaw dropped.

Azriel, tearing out Nesta’s throat? With his hands? That…that didn’t sound like him. Not at all.

“I...” Feyre had no idea what to say. Why would Azriel have done that? Feyre couldn’t…Of course, she knew that Azriel was capable of great violence, but he had never…she had never seen him lose his temper with a member of his family. Had never even through that that was a possibility. Whatever Nesta had said, must have been…

If he had gotten this angry on Alana’s behalf…What exactly had been said?

"What did Nesta do? What did she say?" Feyre asked, her voice hard. "What did she say to warrant that reaction from Azriel?"

Rhys grimaced, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know,” he said, his voice low. “Trust me, you do not want to know what she said. It's...complicated."

"Complicated, how?" Feyre demanded as she towelled herself off, walking back into the bedroom and pulled on comfortable clothing, her worry mounting. "What could possibly be so bad that you don't want to tell me?"

If it was bad enough that Rhys didn't want to tell her what exactly happened...what exactly had been said.

"Well, that…” Rhys trailed off.

"Tell me," Feyre demanded again. "What exactly happened after…Hybern?"

Her mate gave in, holding out his hand and she joined him sitting on the edge of their bed.

Their bed.

She was home. Finally.

Rhys sighed.

“After Hybern…Mor dropped Nesta and Elain off at the House of Wind and then came back to the Townhouse. I had…I had Azriel and Cassian, and Alana too” Rhys said quietly and Feyre swallowed. Azriel and Cassian were healed. Rhys had told her that…but somehow she hadn’t been able to believe it…until she had seen it.

“Amren tried to stop the blood flow from the literal hole in Azriel’s chest. I didn’t notice at first…Alana was kneeling at Azriel’s side…covered in his blood…holding his head on her lap…” Rhys’s violet eyes seemed to be far, far away, as he nearly shuddered, just thinking about it. “Azriel was…in and out of consciousness…but he was just…he was just holding onto her.”

Feyre’s heart was lodged in her throat. Azriel, nearly dead, was just…holding Alana. Her head was spinning as her mind worked hard to comprehend this.

“The mating bond snapped for them,” Rhys finally said quietly.

Feyre’s eyes widened. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

The…the mating bond? Alana and Azriel? Mates?

“The mating bond,” she echoed faintly. “The…the mating bond.”

Feyre was quite sure that her jaw dropped. And that she stared at Rhys like he had just grown a second head.

“Azriel and Alana?” Feyre asked, unable to believe that. Azriel and Alana?! The brooding shadowsinger and spymaster of the Night Court and her youngest sister?

Azriel, who seemed to have a thing for Mor and had never looked at another female as far as Feyre was aware?

Rhys winced at her look.

"Yes, I know," he said quietly, wincing. "That was…my reaction too. I didn’t see it coming. I don’t think that anyone saw this coming...especially not Azriel."

Feyre’s mind was racing.

Azriel and Alana. Mates.

She couldn’t…she never would have imagined it. Never seen it coming. Not in a thousand years.

“Have they…” she wasn’t even sure what she was asking.

“Three days late,” Rhys said with a sigh. “They were not willing to wait.”

“Three day?!” Feyre demanded. As far as she knew, Alana had never even entertained the thought of a suitor. Not that there had been any men that had looked over the fact that she was a bastard…and mute. They had never bothered to look further and Alana had never fussed about it either.

"Three days," Rhys repeated. "The moment Azriel was well enough to be mobile again, they mated." Rhys shuddered, his face scrunching up in distaste. “They are insufferable. The both of them.”

"What do you mean, insufferable?" Feyre asked. A million thoughts were running through her head. Alana and Azriel…mates. They mated.

"They could not stay away from each other," Rhys said, shuddering again. "They were...touchy. All the time. And so very...cutesy and sweet with each other. Gods, they are nauseating."

Feyre’s eyebrows rose at that. Alana and Azriel. Touchy? Cutesy and sweet? She could barely even imagine it. Alana...and Azriel. Being affectionate.

"She’s sitting on his lap constantly," her mate groaned, rubbing his eyes hard. "And he is just…constantly touching her. I don’t even think that they have gone a whole five minutes without touching each other."

"And the looks," her mate continued drily. "Gods, they are exchanging these looks. You would have thought that they are the soppiest, lovesick couple in existence. I did not ever need to see Azriel making heart-eyes at Alana. That was…traumatising."

Feyre pressed her hand to her mouth to muffle a snort. Azriel, making heart-eyes? That was a sight that she could not quite imagine. She…she hadn’t even thought that Azriel was even…capable of making heart-eyes.

"Cassian and Mor kept poking fun at them. At every opportunity, which they definitely got often. Alana just…ignored them. But Azriel…" Rhys’ lips curled into a smirk. "He was not as amused as Alana by their teasing. He kept threatening violence every five minutes."

Feyre’s eyes widened at that, a laugh escaping her.

Azriel threatening violence for every five minutes that someone teased him about his new mate? She could not picture that either.

"Cassian started making kissy faces at Alana just to see if Azriel would lose his temper," her mate said, a broad smile on his face. "And let me tell you, he nearly clawed out Cas’ eyeballs for it."

"So she's staying here?" Feyre asked carefully.

Rhys shook his head, his expression growing more serious. "She's at Azriel's house," he explained with a sigh. "It's...the cauldron left her with some...abilities. She’s a daemati…of sorts, at least,” Rhys said with a grimace. “We are still trying to figure out…how exactly it works. You and me…we need to concentrate if we want to read somebody’s thoughts. Alana…she said it was like she was standing in the middle of a market square and everybody is shouting at her,” Rhys said quietly. “We haven’t yet found anybody with shields solid enough to keep her out.”

Feyre swallowed at that. Alana, a daemati…of sorts. Having no control over whose thoughts she heard. No control over how loud everything was.

“It’s like every mental wall, doesn’t even exist for her," Rhys said with a sigh. "Being around Amren gives her a headache too apparently. Azriel and Cassian are the most relaxing to be around according to her. There minds seem to be...even, analytical."

It sounded like a living hell. No control, no shields. Nothing.

“Is she…” Feyre’s voice was quiet. “Is she doing alright? Considering everything that happened.”

“She’s fine,” Rhys promised her. “Alana is probably doing the best of them all,” Rhys said, something like amusement bleeding into his voice. “She can tell you all about it."

There was a knock at the door at that moment.

Feyre tensed as her eyes flew to the door.

“That’s her,” Rhys said quietly, placing a soothing hand on her leg. “Are you ready?”

Feyre took a deep, steadying breath, pushing down her worry and her nerves.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Feyre!”

Her sister's voice. Her sister's voice.

Feyre’s heart skipped a beat as her body went rigid.

She couldn’t…she couldn’t believe it. After so long…after believing…believing for so long that she would never hear Alana’s voice…

Feyre remembered with a shudder the sight of small, slight Alana in her translucent nightgown…being poured out of the cauldron onto the stone...She looked nothing like she did now.

She looked well.

That was the first thing Feyre realised. Colour on her cheeks, dark, pin straight hair pinned away from her face and these devasting doe eyes…

Feyre’s eyes roamed over her sister, drinking in the sight of her. Alive. Well. Whole.

She could barely believe it, her mind struggling to catch up.

"You can talk," Feyre whispered as Alana hugged her.

She grimaced.

Kinda. This is easier though, she answered, her mental voice slipping into Feyre's mind without her even noticing. My throat hurts if I talk too much.

It was strange, having a voice in her mind that was not her own. Different from when her mate spoke to her down the bond. It was more…pronounced. Clearer, somehow.

"Are…” Feyre’s voice broke again, her eyes roaming over Alana again. “Are you really alright, Al?”

She drunk in her sister's face, the pale skin, the freckles that covered her face...she had been pretty as a human but as a fae...as a High fae she was gorgeous.

Alana’s eyes, her sister’s eyes, were still the same. Still that same dark, endless brown that had always seemed to hold so many secrets. She had never met anyone who could hold as many secrets as Alana had.

She looked so healthy, so well and Feyre felt a lump form in her throat.

She had to fight the sudden urge to cry, as she pulled her sister into another hug. Her sister’s slender arms wrapped around her, pulling her in tight. Like she was never going to let her go again.

I am alright, Alana promised fiercely. I am better than alright. I am...I am so happy, Fey.

The thought in her mind brought another wave of tears to Feyre’s eyes. She held on to her sister tighter, burying her face against her neck as a sob escaped her and she inhaled her sister’s familiar, comforting scent. Pomegranate and Vanilla, with an underlay of Azriel.

He treats you well? she asked, cradling her sisters face in her hands. She didn't think that Azriel would...mistreat her but...

Alana’s eyes darkened as she thought of Azriel and her expression softened as a faint smile crossed her face.

Feyre swallowed again. This was different. This was…her sister had never smiled like that. So open. So happy. So filled with…love.

And then, very carefully, Feyre felt how Alana pulled at her mind in some sense and then dropped a memory.

For just a moment, it felt like she was in her little sister's body. And she stared at Azriel who looked at her, at Alana with utter and complete adoration, scarred hands cupping her cheeks so gently.

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat at that.

She could feel, could understand the feeling of Azriel’s warm, scarred hand against her skin. The way how the pads of his fingers ran over her jawline, the way how his thumb traced over her lower lip. The way how those hazel eyes of his were filled with nothing but love.

A shudder ran down Feyre’s spine. That look, the way how Azriel had looked at her sister…it was like the expression in Rhys’ eyes when he looked at her.

Her eyes flickered to Rhys, where he was patiently waiting in a corner.

He was looking at her with that same look in his eyes. The same look that Feyre knew was mirrored in her own eyes. It was the same, that look. Pure, utter devotion.

It was the look of a man completely and utterly in love.

Feyre swallowed as she turned back to Alana, her mind whirling. This was…Alana, her sister…her quiet, shy, closed-off little sister. And Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court. The one that no one saw as anything but sharp and deadly and a ruthless killer.

He didn’t hurt you, did he? Feyre asked weakly. She didn’t think he would but…

Alana’s expression softened. Her hand gently came to rest on Feyre’s arm and she shook her head, a small smile on her face.

He was gentle as possible, Fey, Alana promised quietly. Gentler than I would have expected. He made sure to go slow, to be careful. He was…he was everything I could have wished for. He has never hurt me more than I wanted.

Feyre let out a long, shaky breath she didn’t know that she was holding.

She…she had been worried. Worried for her sweet little sister, being together with a man like Azriel. Who was dangerous and deadly and…and lethal.

What do you mean with no more than you wanted? she demanded suddenly. Alana just grinned at her, her laugh like a pealing bell.

A shudder ran down Feyre’s spine again. Alana’s…her sister’s voice, the sound of her laugh. It was the most wonderful sound that she had ever heard. She could’ve started bawling like a child, but the thought that Alana dropped into her mind just completely derailed her.

He knows what I like, and he’s happy to oblige.

Feyre’s eyes widened and she choked on nothing.

She…oh Gods. Her face heat in a blush as Alana just continued smiling at her innocently.

This was her sister. Her quiet, shy, closed-off sister. That was how she remembered her. And now…and now…she was standing in front of Feyre, smiling at her like a cat who had just devoured an entire bowl of cream, telling her that her stoic, broody, deadly Spymaster of a mate was apparently…into things…

Her sister smirked at her. Alana! Her shy, little sister, who had never even so much as looked at a male with interest, stood in front of Feyre, a smirk on her face as she told Feyre that her mate knew what she liked.

I was surprised too, you know, Alana’s voice echoed in Feyre’s mind. But well…I like it, and he’s happy to oblige. He’s very good at it…

But the look on Alana’s face, the utter contentment in her eyes, and the feeling of…of lust from her sister, made it even more mortifying.

Alana was happy. Her sister was happy and well, and she just radiated happiness. Feyre’s heart soared, seeing her sister like that after so long. And even the horrifying bits, Feyre could push past.

Seeing her sister happy like this…that was worth a bit of mortification and discomfort.

So she swallowed her mortification, and just pulled a face at her smirking sister.

Enough with the gory details, for the love of the Mother. she chided her in her head. Alana just let out another pearly bell kind of laugh.

You should come downstairs. Nuala and Cerridwen have given Lucien some clothing and showed him to a bathing chamber. Lunch should be served soon, if you are hungry, Alana said into her mind.

I am famished, Feyre confessed in her mind. “Lead the way,” she said aloud and Alana just rolled her eyes, taking her by the arm and pulling her downstairs.

And then something else came to her mind. What did Nesta say to you?

Alana sighed. Nothing that matters, her sister said easily as they reached the dining room. Azriel and Cassian were waiting for them.

And then Feyre saw how her sister turned from happy to radiant as soon as she saw Azriel.

Feyre watched with ill disguised horror, as the spymaster’s shadows came over to Alana, seemingly swarming around her. Whatever bits of naked skin they could find…in this case her hands and face, because she wore a long sleeves high necked gown, they caressed. Nearly sweetly.

Alana absentmindedly drew her fingers through one tendril as she floated over to Azriel, sitting down onto his lap like that was an utterly normal thing to do. Feyre could just stare as Azriel pressed a kiss against her sister‘s cheek, one scarred hand possessively spanning her waist.

Like this was normal. Like this was something they had done dozens of times…like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this was their usual routine…and Alana smiled at him, broadly, pressing a kiss against his cheek in greeting.

It was...it was surreal, watching Alana like this. So much more open, less reserved than Feyre had ever seen her. And the way how Azriel looked at her...Feyre had never seen him express such open and utter adoration before.

Cassian made a retching sound, catching Feyre’s attention. Azriel’s eyes darkened as he threw an icy look in Cassian’s direction. Alana just snuggled deeper into Azriel’s chest.

Azriel let out the smallest of chuckles at Alana’s behaviour in his lap, one of his hands coming up to gently play with a strand of her dark hair as he pressed another kiss to her forehead.

The quiet, brooding Spymaster of the Night Court, who could be downright terrifying when he wanted, completely and utterly smitten by her little sister.

Feyre could just stare.

She had not for one moment thought that they would…would be a good match. But here they were.

Alana...Feyre had never seen her sister like this before. So open, so happy. So...unreserved. She was like a cat, settled in the lap of her male, letting him pet her like she was...like he owned her. And it seemed like Azriel would gladly claim ownership too. The possessive, proprietary look on his face told Feyre all she needed to know.

“Get a room, for the love of the Mother,” Cassian drawled with a disgusted look on his face as Azriel buried his nose in her sister’s hair and Feyre shot him another dirty look. Alana just stuck her tongue out at him.

Azriel just bared his teeth at Cassian, a silent warning to watch his tongue in the direction of the woman in his lap, who was busy playing with the buttons on his fighting leathers.

“What did Nesta say?“ Feyre repeated as she sat down herself.

The reactions were immediate.

Azriel growled.

Feyre couldn’t help but flinch slightly. That growl...she hadn’t heard him make that sound before. It sounded utterly terrifying. Alana didn’t even flinch. She just touched Azriel’s chest in a soothing gesture and Azriel immediately quieted down, holding her even tighter.

It doesn’t matter what Nesta had to say, Alana’s voice echoed in her mind.

“It absolutely does,” Feyre muttered, feeling some anger rising in her. Her sister deserved better than what Nesta had to say.

I don’t care what she says, Alana replied in her mind. She can believe whatever she likes. She is entitled to her opinion.

“She can be quiet about her opinion,” Azriel hissed. Only then Feyre realised that her sister must have been projecting her mental voice so that everybody could hear it.

"Azriel." Alana's voice was soft. "It's alright. We both know the truth. It doesn’t matter what she believes"

Azriel looked down at her and a slight frown appeared on his face. He gently cupped her sister's chin, his hazel eyes staring into her dark ones. Feyre could practically hear the silent conversation between them.

Cassian sighed. "Nesta found out about the mating bond between Azriel and Alana and she didn't take it well," he told Feyre drily.

Of course, she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. Feyre ground her teeth together.

"So what exactly was said?" she asked sharply.

Cassian and Rhys shared a look as Azriel let out another warning growl. Feyre ignored him.

I want to know, Feyre snapped towards Alana. Her sister stiffened.

Feyre, Alana’s voice echoed in her mind, a hint of warning in her tone. Feyre pushed down a wave of irritation.

Tell me, Feyre demanded. She was done with secrets. Done with not knowing things.

It’s nothing, Alana tried to brush her off and Feyre’s irritation flared up in her stomach.

It is not ‘nothing’. Feyre snapped at her. Her sister’s face was a stoic mask as Azriel let his hand span across her stomach.

Nesta made a comment about how she was surprised that Azriel hadn't ripped me apart during our...mating. But maybe she shouldn't be surprised because I was a whore anyway, Alana finally answered. How a brute like him was all I amounted to, given that I was a bastard...and then there was some more stuff in that rant about how unfair it was that I had landed on my feet but Elain is...well...Elain isn't doing so good, Alana answered flatly.

Feyre felt her blood boil in her veins. Of course, Nesta would say something like that, the bitter, twisted...- Feyre bit down on the string of curses burning on her tongue.

Nesta isn't doing well, Feyre. You can't take what she is saying right now to heart, Alana warned her softly. You haven't been in her mind...it's...it's bad.

Feyre felt some of her anger cool down ever so slightly. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t pissed off at Nesta for what she had said. Even if...even if Nesta wasn’t doing well.

That doesn’t change anything about what she said, Feyre said through gritted teeth.

I am not defending her, Alana said firmly. I love Nesta. Doesn’t mean that I like hearing her talk about Azriel like that. But Feyre... her voice grew softer. I have seen her mind. Her thoughts. She isn’t in a good place right now.

Feyre grimaced, feeling her anger slowly disappear. She didn’t like it. She didn’t want to. But...maybe Alana was right. Nesta was her sister, and Feyre loved her. Even after everything that had happened between them.

Still...what she said... Feyre said weakly and Alana’s lips quirked.

I know, she said gently. I was angry too. I nearly tore her head off. But Azriel...he was furious. I’ve never seen him like that before.

Feyre didn’t need to be told how furious Azriel had been. The look in his eyes, the clenched jaw and the growl that Feyre had heard...she didn’t need anyone to tell her how the usually stoic male had been absolutely furious about what Nesta had said.

"I'll talk to her," Feyre said aloud.

She ignored the dubious look that Cassian and Rhys were giving her. Her sister just smiled at her softly and nodded.

Talk to her gently, she urged in Feyre’s mind. Please. And don’t...don’t try to defend me. It will only start a fight.

Feyre winced. Even though, she didn’t like the thought of it and not defending her sister went completely against her nature, she knew that Alana was right. And her sister could read her thoughts with ease anyways.

I’ll bite my tongue, Feyre promised her. Alana smiled at her again, that smile that lit up her entire face. Feyre felt her heart clench at the beautiful sight.

“Thank you,” Alana said happily, her voice like the most wonderful sound. Feyre had a feeling that that was the thanks not only for agreeing not to defend her but for just...not making a scene. Feyre felt a small, answering smile tug at the corners of her own lips.

Instead, she watched her sister pick up a piece of bread from the plate in front of Azriel and hold it up for him to eat without another word. A silent gesture of acceptance.

Azriel’s lips twitched as he looked at his mate, sitting on his lap like she belonged there. But he obediently opened his mouth, a subtle sign of complete surrender to Alana.

Cassian made another retching sound. Alana ignored him.

Azriel was the one who kissed Alana.

Feyre could have gone quite a long time without that sight. Especially because it wasn't a simple peck on the cheek or a quick kiss to her lips.

Feyre could have gone forever without seeing her sister like this, settled in the lap of her mate, their bodies pressed together tightly as Azriel kissed her, devoured her, his hands possessively splayed out on her slender waist.

"Now you are just fucking with me," Cassian said with a sigh.

Alana just broke out in a fit of giggles as Azriel threw a glare in Cassian’s direction.

“Maybe I am,” Azriel mused, as Alana settled back into his lap. Azriel’s one scarred hand was back to playing with a strand of Alana’s hair. “Jealous?” he asked lightly and Cassian actually growled at him. Azriel snorted, his hand possessively covering Alana’s stomach, who was smiling like the happiest person in the world.

“Shut up,” Cassian huffed. “I am not jealous. I just don’t want to know what you two get up to at night.”

"Only at night?" Azriel asked drily. "Brother, you have much to learn."

Feyre groaned internally at the hint in Azriel’s voice as Cassian looked a little ashen, while Rhys burst out laughing and Alana let out another one of her pearly-bell like laughs.

“Stop tormenting him,” Rhys said with a chuckle as Cassian tried to recover. “He’ll have nightmares for weeks if you continue like this.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Azriel replied, completely unrepentant, “not ours.” Alana was still giggling, a sound like tinkling bells in Feyre’s ears.

“Of course you say that, you bastard,” Cassian said with a sigh as Azriel’s hand on Alana’s stomach started to slowly wander upwards.

Feyre could see how Alana’s cheeks flushed slightly in response to the possessive touch. How her breathing quickened ever so slightly. Azriel’s lips twitched as he noticed it too.

"We'll let you deal with Lucien," Alana said suddenly, gaining her feet quickly. "We'll see you at dinner. Az?"

“Coming, sweetheart,” Azriel said and Cassian made another retching sound as Feyre could feel the waves of possessiveness coming off Azriel in waves. Her sister was his.

In a matter of heartbeats, they were gone. Feyre was left with Cassian and Rhys who were both looking at her intently.

"Yes, they are always like that, if you wondered,” Cassian said with a roll of his eyes. "I think they are still in the Mating Frenzy."

“Most likely,” Rhys agreed with a chuckle. “But they also don’t seem to care who sees it. Mor is still horrified from walking in on them a few weeks ago.”

“So would I be in her shoes,” Feyre said honestly and Cassian snickered.

“They are insufferable, aren’t they?” He said with a grin. Rhys just chuckled. “So utterly happy.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed, the image of the two of them, completely oblivious to the world around them still in her mind. “Unbelievably so.”

“They’re also completely and utterly devoted to each other,” Rhys mused. “It is…kind of sweet.” Feyre nodded thoughtfully.

It was sweet. The way Azriel looked at her sister, how he was so utterly possessive about her. And Alana…there wasn’t a hint of hesitation about her when it came to Azriel.

"As long as she's happy," Feyre said quietly. As long as Alana was happy.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #Brighten Up The Sky

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hobivore · 3 months ago

Text

Quarter to three | BC

— Bang Chan x reader (f)

Night or day, no one comforts you like Chan does.

AU/Trope: childhood friends to lovers, smut (minors DNI)

Warnings: mention of nightmares (chan comforts reader after one), oral (f receiving)

WC: 1.1k

A/N: Based on the prompts: "What are you doing in my bed?" & "Put me out of my misery and open up these legs for me." This piece was originally uploaded to my old sideblog linoguistics, so you might've seen this on tumblr before.

— SKZ masterlist | Ask box

Chan wakes to the sound of rustling fabric and the feeling of someone climbing over his legs, stumbling, the comfortable cocoon of his sleeping bag suddenly more akin to a straitjacket.

He yelps and shoots upright, bumping heads with the person crawling on top of him, cramped inside the tiny tent. There’s a soft ouch in a familiar voice—it’s you, and he blinks in the darkness, barely making out your figure against the backdrop of grey nylon.

“What are you doing in my bed?” He rubs his forehead as his heart rate slows down again, feeling the sudden pain now the adrenaline is starting to wane. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry." You wriggle your body between him and his bags, wobbling on the edge of the sleeping mat, and he scoots over in the limited space. “Why is your tent so small?”

He wants to tell you this is a one-person tent and there’s plenty of room for him alone, but there’s a quiver in your voice that makes him hold back. It sounds fragile, frayed around the edges, a sharp punch to the hollow of his breastbone.

“Are you okay?”

You sniffle and he turns onto his side, freeing his arms from his sleeping bag. “Hey, come here,” he pulls you in for a hug, and you let him, curling up into his arms. “Bad dream again?”

He feels your response more than he hears it, a small nod into the crook of his neck. He holds you tight, rubbing soothing circles on your back, feeling the tension seep out of your body.

The familiar scent of your vanilla shampoo overwhelms his senses as he presses his nose into your hair, fighting against the urge to kiss your forehead. The two of you are close, but not that close, even if every fibre of his being screams at him to hold onto you and never let go. To not make the same mistakes as he did last time.

He’s lost count of the times you’ve climbed into his bed after one of your nightmares. But the last time is etched into his brain, even though it’s been years: both of you had been in middle school, and Chan had been too wrapped up in trying to navigate this strange new world of lanky limbs and body hair to realise how he should’ve treasured that night.

But now you’re here, holding onto him like he’s your last liferaft, and he feels like a twelve year old again when you ask, “Can I stay?”

“Of course,” he answers, tripping over the words, overeager.

You shiver and he realises you must’ve come straight for his tent after you woke up—dressed in nothing but an old tee and shorts, bare legs and feet rubbing against each other in an attempt to keep warm. “Hold on,” he says, letting go of you and zipping his sleeping bag open, spreading it over the two of you like a blanket. “Better?”

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice already heavy with sleep.

You turn around and he freezes when he feels your ass press against his front. There’s not enough room to scoot even farther back, and he doesn’t want to bother you, so he stays there and listens to the sound of your breathing. It’s even and calm and Chan wishes he could match the erratic beating of his heart to yours.

But it’s impossible when your body feels so soft and warm, slotted snugly against his as if it was made for him. His thoughts stray to all the scenarios he’s pictured countless times before: of him kissing you, your legs wrapped around his hips, the slick drag of his cock as he fucks into you.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this, not here, not now—in fact, he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, ever, but even less so when you came to him looking for comfort.

And what do you get in return? His stupid, hardening dick pressed against your ass.

You stir, moving closer—and Chan hears the hitch in your breath, the moment of realisation.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling back, bracing himself for your reaction, a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

To his surprise, you don’t move away, turning around instead. “It’s okay,” you say, a hand coming up to his chest. “Can I?”

Chan’s heart pounds in his ears and he’s not sure what you’re asking permission for, but the answer has left his mouth before he can think twice: “Yes.”

He flinches as your noses bump and realises your mouth is looking for his own in the darkness, lips tentative and soft. You’re pliant underneath his wandering hands, letting him pull you under him as he deepens the kiss.

Leaning back, he kisses your breasts, your stomach, your thighs—trying to go slow as he slips your shorts off despite his burning need to crawl back up and bury himself into you. “Baby, please,” he groans, “put me out of this misery and open up these legs for me.”

You chuckle, brushing a hand through his hair. “Want it this bad, huh?” you tease, but oblige in spite of it, putting your feet on his shoulders so he can press your knees against your chest.

“Waited for so long,” Chan admits, face inches away from your pussy, eyes closing as he tries to calm his soaring nerves.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“Didn’t want to fuck things up between us.” He can’t hold himself back any longer now, licking a broad stripe up your slit, surprised at the wetness gathering on his tongue. It’s tangy yet sweet and he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking, taking note of the way your back arches off the sleeping mat.

“Ah—Channie,” you whimper, and he’s sure his name has never sounded better, “you couldn’t fuck things up even if you tried.”

Still, it’s not enough—he needs to hear you say it, needs to know you want him as badly as he wants you. “Tell me,” he pleads between open-mouthed kisses pressed to your mount, looking up at you in the darkness, at the faint silhouette of your profile.

The answer comes in the form of your hand fisting into his curls and the stream of words accompanying it as he dips his tongue past your entrance. “Fuck—Chan, please, need you—need more—” you moan, urging him on.

“Patience is a virtue,” he chuckles, hot breath teasing your clit. “Want you to come on my face first.”

And when you do, thighs shaking around his head, he lets you ride it out with soft brushes of his tongue before he comes up to kiss you.

“I’ve got you, baby. I won’t let you go this time.”

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story please reblog, leave a comment, tell a friend, send me a pigeon, launch a mars rover. Your encouragement fuels my inner writer cryptid 👾

#skz hard hours #stray kids hard hours #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz hard thoughts #stray kids hard thoughts #bang chan smut #chan smut #bang chan x reader #skz imagines #stray kids imagines

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goldenroutledge · 5 months ago

Text

if tomorrow never comes

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader

word count: 2.0k

prompt: ❛ i didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, i just have a lot on my plate. ❜. based on this request.

summary: in which you and carlos drift apart and the tension boils over on your anniversary.

a/n: i’m having so much fun writing these requests! thank you to everyone requesting :)

masterlist || be my valentine blurb event 💌

“When do you think you can be here, Carlos?”

His voice is tight on the other end of the line, knowing that you won’t like the answer. “An hour. Ninety minutes tops.”

You want to scream out and repeat his answer back to him so loudly that he can hear from the balcony of your shared apartment. It’ll let all of Monaco know how ridiculous he sounds. The flight attendant’s presence at the other end of the cabin helps you keep your composure. “And you’re sure that’s it? One hour?”

“Yes cariño, I promise.”

“Don’t call me that when I’m annoyed with you.”

“Can’t help it.” Carlos smiles cheekily, you can hear it in his voice. You can’t help but roll your eyes, feeling that he’s not taking you seriously. Postponing time spent together, sometimes venturing into canceling dates altogether, was becoming too frequent for your liking. But patience had to be your strong suit dating Carlos. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah. See you soon.” You end the call abruptly, leaving him to a last minute business meeting while you’re sitting here, awaiting your boyfriend on the private jet he has abandoned. Then again it would only be considered abandoned had he shown up on time to begin with.

He’d returned home from training yesterday exhausted as ever, yet reassured you with the promise that you two would spend a few days on a quiet getaway for your anniversary. Just the two of you, alone together. A trip you’d been planning for weeks now, with the need to make it an anniversary you’d always remember. If getting away was what it took to get Carlos to relax again, to be with you free of any distractions from work, you’d do that.

Carlos regards his career with a dedicated spirit, diligently organizing his schedule to make sure nothing falls between the cracks. His training, his sponsorships, his future at Williams… As badly as he feels to leave you waiting, duty calls. A last minute Zoom meeting with a new sponsor held him back at the apartment for longer than he anticipated. While most people have already resigned themselves to the fact that they can’t have it all, Carlos Sainz is not most people. He’ll either have everything, or die trying. It’s one of the many traits you love about him. Your heart aches at the thought of it being what tears you apart.

“Champagne?” The flight attendant offers you the drink, one of two that was meant for your celebratory toast with Carlos to kick off your anniversary trip.

“Thank you, it’s been a long day.” The flight attendant gives you a sympathetic smile, watching you down the drink with no effort. If this keeps up, it’ll be a long weekend too.

–

Once Carlos finally joins you on the plane, his ask for forgiveness is difficult to deny. He brought you a bouquet of flowers so large they took up their own seat on the plane, and he hadn’t stopped showering you with love since he arrived. Something about making up for lost time, he’d mumbled into your ear when you questioned his overwhelming affection. The colors of the flowers tied in beautifully with your outfit; Carlos was sure to capture it with a few photographs.

His attention to detail was another thing that you loved about him, it drew you in everytime. When you’re together like this, free of the outside noise, you wish it could last forever. Always on the other end of the phone or outside the airplane window is something ready to whisk him away. Ideally, an anniversary spent with him would consist of a lazy morning making breakfast together, simply basking in each other’s company.

His company was hard to enjoy when you were barely experiencing it, now sitting alone at your anniversary dinner hours later. Your mood turned sour when Carlos excused himself to take a call, walking away from the table before you had a chance to express your distaste. The tension that had been simmering between you two was bound to bubble over once again as Carlos returned to your table with a guilty look, phone to his ear as he ended his call with his cousin/manager.

You didn’t bother to look up, taking your anger out on your meal instead, poking and prodding the food with your silverware. It was a delicious meal that did nothing to deserve a brutal assault by fork and knife, ruining its picturesque presentation.

“Mi amor, I’m sorry.”

“Did you know that the more you say those words, the more they lose their significance each time?”

He sighs, running a stressed hand through his dark hair. “You know the kind of pressure that I’m under right now, cariño. How much this year has worn on me in general. Please, I just need you to be a little more-”

“Understanding? Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” You cut him off harshly, and the look you give him across the table is worth flinching from.

“You have. And I feel terrible, but it won’t last forever.” He attempts to soothe your worries, reaching for your hand. You don’t accept or deny his touch, you’re just still. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“You’re right, Carlos. It won’t last forever. You’ll make sure of it.”

“What do you mean by that? You think we’re going to break up?”

“I’m saying that if you don’t make time to nurture our relationship, there won’t be a relationship left! I’ve been here, Carlos. For you, for us, while juggling my own life and career, so don’t tell me it’s impossible. There was a time when you balanced it all before, when you weren’t working yourself to the bone because you decided you have something more to prove to the world.”

“I’m trying to balance everything, but it’s not always going to be smooth sailing. You know it’s not easy.”

“I know it’s not. I don’t need it to be, but I miss the days when you felt like our relationship was worth making time for. When I wasn’t the last of your priorities.”

“Maybe I miss the days when you understood that I’m not always going to be available for you 24/7.” Carlos rants, feeling defensive at how this time, the gloves are off, you’re finally letting Carlos feel the weight of the burden you’ve been carrying– loving enough for the two of you. Your pounding heart reminds you that it’s impossible to carry on like this. Something has to give. “Do you realize how much time I’m spending away from training to be with you? Is that not making time for our relationship?”

Tears prick your eyes in frustration, the air suddenly feeling warmer than before. Your nervous system begs you to get out of there, to leave the conversation before either of you say something you’ll regret. If it hasn’t been said already. “You still don’t get it, do you? I don’t even need any of this! I just want you! I remember the days when that wasn’t too much to ask for.”

Your hand has long dropped his, and Carlos’ eyes widen in panic as he watches you move out of your chair. “Amor, stay. Please, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Confliction moves through you like a strike of lightning, torn between staying to talk it through or taking a moment of space, after pouring out the feelings you’d spent so much time locking away. The last straw is when your waiter approaches your table, holding a small cake in his hands. On the top of it is a picture of you and Carlos together on your first anniversary, more content and in love than ever. A candle burns on the cake and wax melts down the sides, resembling the tears that wish to fall. Carlos’ eyes plead with guilt, begging you to stay and forget. Smile and pretend that right now, you’re still that happy couple printed on the cake.

Instead, you throw your napkin to your plate. “I need some air.”

–

Carlos watches you go, he doesn’t stop you. A timeout will do you both some good right now. He tries to tell himself that it’s not that bad. Couples fight. But he sits there, sullen, knowing that he’s fucked up this time. His heart burns as he stares at the picture of you two on the cake. It’s unbearable, and that little surprise he orchestrated now feels like a pointed joke at his expense. He blows out the candle and the light goes out. But closing his eyes won’t help his fear of the dark. Even he can’t run from this.

He finds you outside of the restaurant, sitting on a bench, staring down into the renewing waters of the fountain. It’s mesmerizing, the way you can drown in the sight and get lost in the calming sound. He slides his jacket off and wraps it around your shoulders.

“I’m sorry, mi amor. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I just have a lot on my plate. But that’s no excuse to put our relationship on the backburner. I’m so, so sorry.” Carlos presses a chaste kiss to your temple, and feels comforted by how you subtly lean into his space. It’s a step. “I love you, and I’m going to listen to you. I want to make this better because there’s not a life for me without you in it. I need you, cariño. I want to be with you, always.”

“I’ve felt so disconnected from you lately and being here on our anniversary, reminded of all the happier times we’ve shared, I just… that scares me. I’m scared we won’t get back there if there’s any more distance between us.”

“I should’ve seen it sooner. The truth is, I am able to do what I do because you’re always there. You support me when things are up, when they’re down. When I lost my seat, when I got sick with appendicitis, when I won races… you’re there for it all. I took you for granted thinking that I could give everything I have to my career, when it’s you who deserves it.”

“You do give it everything, but I think you’ve lost sight of things a little bit. Usually you give me everything you have too, I mean the little cake with us on it… I love that you did that for me, Carlos. I’m only so upset because I love you too.”

Those words haven’t stopped echoing in his mind. He swears he’ll engrave them into his brain forever, as long as you’re happy. “Maybe I have been overcompensating a little bit, feeling pressure to make things perfect in my career. The year has been difficult, but I couldn’t have gotten through without you.”

You kiss his cheek, warming up to his affectionate words. He’s sincere, he truly means them. “You’re more than enough, Carlos. Just the way you are. Weathering the storm isn’t always easy but there’s nobody else I’d rather be with either.”

“Can we start over?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“I have an idea. Should I throw my phone into the fountain, cariño? You’ll have my undivided attention for days.”

“Tempting, but no. Keep your phone dry, my love. Would you be opposed to going back to the villa? Enjoying the rest of the night in?”

Carlos wiggles his brows, as he recognizes that familiar glint in your eyes. One that shimmers with hope and longing. “We do have a pretty sweet cake being boxed up as we speak.”

“Maybe we can light the candle again? I promise I won’t leave the room this time.” Your hearts soar at the thought of blowing out your candle together, hands held as you make a new promise to each other. The past years together have been bliss and the rainbows have always shined through the cloudy skies. The next years together, you will wish for the same and even more.

“Anything for you, cariño. Happy Anniversary.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, leaving you with no choice but to cup his jaw and bring your lips to his. The cool breeze outside is no match for either of you– you’ve got your love to keep you warm.

“Happy Anniversary, Carlos.”

💌: thanks for reading! reblogs & comments are very much appreciated :)

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